He was about twenty-six years of age, with a soft, light brown
moustache and rather innocent-looking grey eyes. His father, who had
begun life as an advanced Nationalist, had modified his views early. He
had made his money as a butcher in Kingstown and by opening shops in
Dublin and in the suburbs he had made his money many times over. He had
also been fortunate enough to secure some of the police contracts and
in the end he had become rich enough to be alluded to in the Dublin
newspapers as a merchant prince. He had sent his son to England to be
educated in a big Catholic college and had afterwards sent him to
Dublin University to study law. Jimmy did not study very earnestly and
took to bad courses for a while. He had money and he was popular; and
he divided his time curiously between musical and motoring circles.
Then he had been sent for a term to Cambridge to see a little life. His
father, remonstrative, but covertly proud of the excess, had paid his
bills and brought him home. It was at Cambridge that he had met
Ségouin. They were not much more than acquaintances as yet but Jimmy
found great pleasure in the society of one who had seen so much of the
world and was reputed to own some of the biggest hotels in France. Such
a person (as his father agreed) was well worth knowing, even if he had
not been the charming companion he was. Villona was entertaining also—a
brilliant pianist—but, unfortunately, very poor.
The car ran on merrily with its cargo of hilarious youth. The two
cousins sat on the front seat; Jimmy and his Hungarian friend sat
behind. Decidedly Villona was in excellent spirits; he kept up a deep
bass hum of melody for miles of the road. The Frenchmen flung their
laughter and light words over their shoulders and often Jimmy had to
strain forward to catch the quick phrase. This was not altogether
pleasant for him, as he had nearly always to make a deft guess at the
meaning and shout back a suitable answer in the face of a high wind.
Besides Villona’s humming would confuse anybody; the noise of the car,
too.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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