the ultimate triumph of the female. His weakness for
Hortense Briggs, to say nothing of Rita, who was not so
attractive as either of these, illustrated the effect of trim
femininity on him, regardless of merit.
“Bella,” observed Samuel Griffiths, heavily, noting Clyde still
standing, “your cousin, Clyde.”
“Oh, yes,” replied Bella, observing that Clyde looked
exceedingly like Gilbert. “How are you? Mother has been
saying that you were coming to call one of these days.” She
extended a finger or two, then turned toward her friends.
“My friends, Miss Finchley and Miss Cranston, Mr. Griffiths.”
The two girls bowed, each in the most stiff and formal
manner, at the same time studying Clyde most carefully
and rather directly, “Well, he does look like Gil a lot, doesn’t
he?” whispered Sondra to Bertine, who had drawn near to
her. And Bertine replied: “I never saw anything like it. He’s
really better-looking, isn’t he—a lot?”
Sondra nodded, pleased to note in the first instance that he
was somewhat better-looking than Bella’s brother, whom
she did not like—next that he was obviously stricken with
her, which was her due, as she invariably decided in
connection with youths thus smitten with her. But having
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thus decided, and seeing that his glance was persistently
and helplessly drawn to her, she concluded that she need
pay no more attention to him, for the present anyway. He
was too easy.
But now Mrs. Griffiths, who had not anticipated this
visitation and was a little irritated with Bella for introducing
her friends at this time since it at once raised the question
of Clyde’s social position here, observed: “Hadn’t you two
better lay off your coats and sit down? I’ll just have Nadine
lay extra plates at this end. Bella, you can sit next to your
father.”
“Oh, no, not at all,” and “No, indeed, we’re just on our way
home ourselves. I can’t stay a minute,” came from Sondra
and Bertine. But now that they were here and Clyde had
proved to be as attractive as he was, they were perversely
interested to see what, if any, social flair there was to him.
Gilbert Griffiths, as both knew, was far from being popular
in some quarters—their own in particular, however much
they might like Bella. He was, for two such self-centered
beauties as these, too aggressive, self-willed and
contemptuous at times. Whereas Clyde, if one were to
judge by his looks, at least was much more malleable. And
if it were to prove now that he was of equal station, or that
the Griffiths thought so, decidedly he would be available
locally, would he not? At any rate, it would be interesting to
know whether he was rich. But this thought was almost
instantly satisfied by Mrs. Griffiths, who observed rather
definitely and intentionally to Bertine: “Mr. Griffiths is a
nephew of ours from the West who has come on to see if
he can make a place for himself in my husband’s factory.
He’s a young man who has to make his own way in the
world and my husband has been kind enough to give him
an opportunity.”
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Clyde flushed, since obviously this was a notice to him that
his social position here was decidedly below that of the
Griffiths or these girls. At the same time, as he also noticed,
the look of Bertine Cranston, who was only interested in
youths of means and position, changed from one of
curiosity to marked indifference. On the other hand, Sondra
Finchley, by no means so practical as her friend, though of
a superior station in her set, since she was so very
attractive and her parents possessed of even more means
—re-surveyed Clyde with one thought written rather plainly
on her face, that it was too bad. He really was so attractive.
At the same time Samuel Griffiths, having a peculiar
fondness for Sondra, if not Bertine, whom Mrs. Griffiths also
disliked as being too tricky and sly, was calling to her:
“Here, Sondra, tie up your dog to one of the dining-room
chairs and come and sit by me. Throw your coat over that
chair. Here’s room for you.” He motioned to her to come.
“But I can’t, Uncle Samuel!” called Sondra, familiarly and
showily and yet somehow sweetly, seeking to ingratiate
herself by this affected relationship. “We’re late now.
Besides Bissell won’t behave. Bertine and I are just on our
way home, truly.”
“Oh, yes, Papa,” put in Bella, quickly, “Bertine’s horse ran a
nail in his foot yesterday and is going lame to-day. And
neither Grant nor his father is home. She wants to know if
you know anything that’s good for it.”
“Which foot is it?” inquired Griffiths, interested, while Clyde
continued to survey Sondra as best he might. She was so
delicious, he thought—her nose so tiny and tilted—her
upper lip arched so roguishly upward toward her nose.
“It’s the left fore. I was riding out on the East Kingston road
yesterday afternoon. Jerry threw a shoe and must have
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picked up a splinter, but John doesn’t seem to be able to
find it.”
“Did you ride him much with the nail, do you think?”
“About eight miles—all the way back.”
“Well, you had better have John put on some liniment and a
bandage and call a veterinary. He’ll come around all right,
I’m sure.”
The group showed no signs of leaving and Clyde, left quite
to himself for the moment, was thinking what an easy,
delightful world this must be—this local society. For here
they were without a care, apparently, between any of them.
All their talk was of houses being built, horses they were
riding, friends they had met, places they were going to,
things they were going to do. And there was Gilbert, who
had left only a little while before—motoring somewhere with
a group of young men. And Bella, his cousin, trifling around
with these girls in the beautiful homes of this street, while
he was shunted away in a small third-floor room at Mrs.
Cuppy’s with no place to go. And with only fifteen dollars a
week to live on. And in the morning he would be working in
the basement again, while these girls were rising to more
pleasure. And out in Denver were his parents with their
small lodging house and mission, which he dared not even
describe accurately here.
Suddenly the two girls declaring they must go, they took
themselves off. And he and the Griffiths were once more
left to themselves—he with the feeling that he was very
much out of place and neglected here, since Samuel
Griffiths and his wife and Bella, anyhow, if not Myra,
seemed to be feeling that he was merely being permitted to
look into a world to which he did not belong; also, that
because of his poverty it would be impossible to fit him into
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330
—however much he might dream of associating with three
such wonderful girls as these. And at once he felt sad—very
—his eyes and his mood darkening so much that not only
Samuel Griffiths, but his wife as well as Myra noticed it. If
he could enter upon this world, find some way. But of the
group it was only Myra, not any of the others, who sensed
that in all likelihood he was lonely and depressed. And in
consequence as all were rising and returning to the large
living room (Samuel chiding Bella for her habit of keeping
her family waiting) it was Myra who drew near to Clyde to
say: “I think after you’ve been here a little while you’ll
probably like Lycurgus better than you do now, even. There
are quite a number of interesting places to go and see
around here—lakes and the Adirondacks are just north of
here, about seventy miles. And when the summer comes
and we get settled at Greenwood, I’m sure Father and
Mother will like you to come up there once in a while.”
She was by no means sure that this was true, but under the
circumstances, whether it was or not, she felt like saying it
to Clyde. And thereafter, since he felt more comfortable
with her, he talked with her as much as he could without
neglecting either Bella or the family, until about half-past
nine, when, suddenly feeling very much out of place and
alone, he arose saying that he must go, that he had to get
up early in the morning. And as he did so, Samuel Griffiths
walked with him to the front door and let him out. But he,
too, by now, as had Myra before him, feeling that Clyde was
rather attractive and yet, for reasons of poverty, likely to be
neglected from now on, not only by his family, but by
himself as well, observed most pleasantly, and, as he
hoped, compensatively: “It’s rather nice out, isn’t it?