“Well, I’m sure you’re not very busy in the daytime. . . . What’s the
matter with you, Pell? You would do very well here, if you would only
wake up. You appear to be half asleep most of the time.”
“I will try to do better,” mumbled Wilfred, loathing himself.
He went back to his desk, seething. The fool! The fool! The
empty-headed, dull, rich fool! It’s lucky he has his money-bags to give
him some identity! He hasn’t even got brains enough to go to the devil
by himself, but must hire a boy to lead him!
Then his mood changed. He sat staring at the square glass inkstands on
his desk, with their lacquered iron covers; cheap stuff stamped out by
the million. What is to become of me? he thought with a sinking heart; I
undertake to rage at everything, yet I am no good myself. There is no
beginning place in me; I am spread all over. I want to be . . . I want
to be everything, and I have started at nothing. Everything I try to
grasp dissolves in my hand. I exist in a fog! . . . God! how I hate
business! My father was a failure, and I am a failure, too. What is one
to do if one has the instincts of a gentleman and no money . . . !
Dobereiner was looking over at Wilfred in horrified commiseration. He
could imagine nothing worse than to be rebuked by Mr. Gore. During the
rest of the day his manner towards Wilfred was gentle. Wilfred glared at
him helplessly.
II
Joe had chosen the top floor in a row of old walk-up flats on West
Fifty-Eighth street. The neighborhood was one of the best in town; but
the house itself was unimproved, and a little run-down; anybody might
live in such a house. It was pleasant too, to walk up the interminable,
dark, shabbily-carpeted stairs, and at the top burst into a paradise of
red velvet portières and Oriental divans crowded with feather cushions.
Joe had bought all the stuff himself; it had been great to pick out the
very best quality velours and the thickest rugs. It was Mr. Gore who
stipulated for a walk-up apartment. In a house with an elevator, you ran
the chance of a blackmailing elevator boy.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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