Limits of space forbid the insertion of the whole of this
chapter. Its opening contains one of the most vivid
word-pictures of the inside of an American customs house
ever pictured in words. From the customs wharf de Vere
is driven in a taxi to the Belmont. Here he engages a
room; here, too, he sleeps; here also, though cautiously
at first, he eats. All this is so admirably described
that only those who have driven in a taxi to an hotel
and slept there can hope to appreciate it.
Limits of space also forbid our describing in full de
Vere's vain quest in New York of the beautiful creature
whom he had met on the steamer and whom he had lost from
sight in the aigrette department of the customs house.
A thousand times he cursed his folly in not having asked
her name.
Meanwhile no word comes from her, till suddenly,
mysteriously, unexpectedly, on the fourth day a note is
handed to de Vere by the Third Assistant Head Waiter of
the Belmont. It is addressed in a lady's hand. He tears
it open. It contains only the written words, "Call on
Mr. J. Superman Overgold. He is a multimillionaire. He
expects you."
To leap into a taxi (from the third story of the Belmont)
was the work of a moment. To drive to the office of Mr.
Overgold was less. The portion of the novel which follows
is perhaps the most notable part of it. It is this part
of the chapter which the Hibbert Journal declares to be
the best piece of psychological analysis that appears in
any novel of the season. We reproduce it here.
"Exactly, exactly," said de Vere, writing rapidly in his
note-book as he sat in one of the deep leather armchairs
of the luxurious office of Mr. Overgold. "So you sometimes
feel as if the whole thing were not worth while."
"I do," said Mr. Overgold. "I can't help asking myself
what it all means. Is life, after all, merely a series
of immaterial phenomena, self-developing and based solely
on sensation and reaction, or is it something else?"
He paused for a moment to sign a cheque for $10,000 and
throw it out of the window, and then went on, speaking
still with the terse brevity of a man of business.
"Is sensation everywhere or is there perception too? On
what grounds, if any, may the hypothesis of a
self-explanatory consciousness be rejected? In how far
are we warranted in supposing that innate ideas are
inconsistent with pure materialism?"
De Vere listened, fascinated. Fortunately for himself,
he was a University man, fresh from the examination halls
of his Alma Mater. He was able to respond at once.
"I think," he said modestly, "I grasp your thought. You
mean--to what extent are we prepared to endorse Hegel's
dictum of immaterial evolution?"
"Exactly," said Mr. Overgold. "How far, if at all, do we
substantiate the Kantian hypothesis of the transcendental?"
"Precisely," said de Vere eagerly. "And for what reasons
[naming them] must we reject Spencer's theory of the
unknowable?"
"Entirely so," continued Mr. Overgold. "And why, if at
all, does Bergsonian illusionism differ from pure
nothingness?"
They both paused.
Mr. Overgold had risen. There was great weariness in his
manner.
"It saddens one, does it not?" he said.
He had picked up a bundle of Panama two per cent. gold
bonds and was looking at them in contempt.
"The emptiness of it all!" he muttered. He extended the
bonds to de Vere.
"Do you want them," he said, "or shall I throw them away?"
"Give them to me," said de Vere quietly; "they are not
worth the throwing."
"No, no," said Mr. Overgold, speaking half to himself,
as he replaced the bonds in his desk. "It is a burden
that I must carry alone. I have no right to ask any one
to share it. But come," he continued, "I fear I am sadly
lacking in the duties of international hospitality. I am
forgetting what I owe to Anglo-American courtesy. I am
neglecting the new obligations of our common Indo-Chinese
policy. My motor is at the door. Pray let me take you to
my house to lunch."
De Vere assented readily, telephoned to the Belmont not
to keep lunch waiting for him, and in a moment was speeding
up the magnificent Riverside Drive towards Mr. Overgold's
home. On the way Mr. Overgold pointed out various objects
of interest,--Grant's tomb, Lincoln's tomb, Edgar Allan
Poe's grave, the ticket office of the New York Subway,
and various other points of historic importance.
On arriving at the house, de Vere was ushered up a flight
of broad marble steps to a hall fitted on every side with
almost priceless objets d'art and others, ushered to the
cloak-room and out of it, butlered into the lunch-room
and footmanned to a chair.
As they entered, a lady already seated at the table turned
to meet them.
One glance was enough--plenty.
It was she--the object of de Vere's impassioned quest.
A rich lunch-gown was girdled about her with a
twelve-o'clock band of pearls.
She reached out her hand, smiling.
"Dorothea," said the multimillionaire, "this is Mr. de
Vere. Mr. de Vere--my wife."