MR. FORBES stood in his office, his eyes rivetted on a narrow
belt of telegraph ticking which slipped loosely through his hands, yard
after yard, from a machine on the table. As it fell to the floor and
coiled and piled about him, until the upper part of his body alone was
visible, it seemed to typify the rising waters of Wall Street. Outside,
the city was white and radiant, under snow and electric light. In the
comfortable office the curtains were drawn, a gas log flamed in the
grate, and the electric loops were hot.
Mr. Forbes had stood motionless for an hour. His hat was on the back of
his head. His brow was corrugated. His lips were pressed together, his
eyes like flint. The secretary and clerk had addressed him twice, but
had been given no heed. The hieroglyphics on that strip of white paper
sliding so rapidly through his fingers had his brain in their grip. For
the moment he was a financial machine, nothing more.
Suddenly the ticking was softly brushed from his hands, the coils about
him kicked apart by a little foot, and he looked down into the face of
his wife. She was enveloped in sables; her cheeks were brilliant with
the pink of health and cold. Mr. Forbes’ brow relaxed; he drew a deep
sigh and removed his hat.
“Well! I am glad I came for you,” she exclaimed. “I believe you would
have stood there all night. You looked like a statue. Is anything
wrong?”
“I have merely stood here and watched a half million drift through my
fingers,” he said. “Northern Consolidated is dropping like a parachute
that won’t open. But let us go home. I am very glad you came down.”
When they were in the brougham she slipped her hand into his under
cover of the rug. “Are you worried?” she asked.
“No; I don’t know that I am. I can hold on, and when this panic is over
the stock will undoubtedly go up again. I have only a million in it.
But I am sorry for Creighton. About two-thirds of all he’s got are in
this railroad, and I’m afraid he won’t be able to hold on. But let us
drop the subject. The thing has got to rest until to-morrow morning,
and I may as well rest, too. Besides, nothing weighs very heavily when
I am at home. Are we booked for anything to-night?”
“There is Mary Gallatin’s _musicale_. She has Melba and Maurel.
And there is the big dance at the Latimer Burr’s. But if you are tired
I don’t care a rap about either. Augusta can go with Harriet.”
“Do stay home; that’s a good girl. I am tired; and what is worse, a lot
of men will get me into the smoking-room and talk ‘slump.’ If I could
spend the evening lying on the divan in your boudoir, while you read or
played to me, I should feel that life was quite all that it should be.”
“Well, you shall. We have so few good times together in winter.”
He pressed her hand gratefully. “Tell me,” he said after a moment, “do
you think this Socialism mooning of Augusta’s means anything?”
“No,” she said contemptuously. “I hope that has not been worrying you.
Girls must have their fads. Last year it was pink parrots; this year it
is Socialism; next year it will be weddings. By the way, what do you
think of the Duke?”
“I can’t say I’ve thought about him at all.”
“He is really quite charming.”
“Is he? His title is, I suppose you mean. Have you seen him since?”
“Since when? Oh, the night of _Don Giovanni_. I forgot that you
had not been home to tea this week. He has dropped in with Fletcher
several times.”
“Ah! Well, I hope he improves on acquaintance. What does Augusta think
of this magnificent specimen of English manhood?”
“I think she rather likes him. She has seen much more of him than I
have, and says that she finds him extremely interesting.”
“_Good_ God!”
“But he must have something to him, Ned dear, for Augusta is very
_difficile_. I never heard her say that a man was interesting
before.”
“And she has been surrounded by healthy well-grown self-respecting
Americans all her life. The infatuation for titles is a germ disease
with Americans, more particularly with New Yorkers. The moment the
microbe strikes the blood, inflammation ensues, and the women that get
it don’t care whether the immediate cause is a man or a remnant. Is his
engagement to Mabel Creighton announced?”
“No; she told Augusta that he had spoken to her but not to her
father--that Mr. Creighton was in such a bad humour about something
she thought it best to wait a while. I suppose it is this Northern
Consolidated business.”
“It certainly is. And if the Dukelet is impecunious, I am afraid Mabel
won’t get him, for there will be nothing to buy him with. Don’t speak
of this, however. Creighton may pull through: the stock may take a
sudden jump, or he may have resources of which I know nothing. I
should be the last to hint that he was in a hole. Don’t talk any more
here; it strains the voice so.”
They were jolting over the rough stones of Fifth Avenue, where speech
rasped and wounded the throat. The long picturesque street of varied
architecture throbbed with the life of a winter’s afternoon. The swarm
of carriages on the white highway looked like huge black beetles with
yellow eyes, multiplying without end. The sidewalks were crowded with
opposing tides; girls of the orchid world, brightly dressed, taking
their brisk constitutional; young men, smartly groomed, promenading
with the ponderous tread of fashion; business men, rushing for the
hotels where they could hear the late gossip of Wall Street; the
rockets of the opera company, splendidly arrayed, and carrying
themselves with a haughty swing which challenged the passing eye; and
the contingent that had come to stare. But snow-clouds had brought
an early dusk, and all were moving homeward. By the time the Forbes
reached their house in the upper part of the Avenue the sidewalks were
almost deserted, and snow stars were whirling.
The halls and dining-room of the Forbes mansion were hung with
tapestries; all the rooms, though home-like, were stately and imposing,
subdued in colour and rich in effect. But if the house had been
designed in the main as a proper setting for a very great lady, one
boudoir and bedroom were the more personal encompassment of a beautiful
and luxurious woman. The walls and windows and doors of the boudoir
were hung with raw silk, opal hued. The furniture was covered with the
same material. On the floor was a white velvet carpet, touched here and
there with pale colour. The opal effect was enhanced by the lamps and
ornaments, which cunningly simulated the gem. In one corner was a small
piano, enamelled white and opalized by the impressionist’s brush.
The pink satin on the walls of the bedroom gleamed through the delicate
mist of lace. A shower of lace half-concealed the low upholstered bed.
The deep carpet was pink, the dressing-table a huge pink and white
butterfly, with furnishings of pink coral inlaid with gold. A small
alcove was walled with a looking-glass. Every four years, when Mr.
Forbes was away at the National Convention, his wife refurnished these
rooms. She was a woman of abounding variety and knew its potence.
Mr. Forbes passed the evening on the divan in the boudoir, while his
wife, attired in a _negligée_ of corn-coloured silk, her warm,
heavy hair unbound, played Chopin with soft, smothered touch for an
hour, then read to him the latest novel. It was one of many evenings,
and when he told her that he was the happiest man alive, she remarked
to herself: “It would be the same. I love him devotedly. Nevertheless,
during these next few weeks he shall not be allowed to forget just how
happy I do make him.”