The easiest way : $b a story of metropolitan lifeHornblow, Arthur
General
The easiest way : $b a story of metropolitan life
Hornblow, Arthur
Man-woman relationships -- Fiction; Mistresses -- Fiction; Women -- Conduct of life -- Fiction
Of John Madison she had seen a great deal. Following her old tactics,
she had started out to fascinate the tall newspaper man, expecting to
find him an easy victim. For once, however, she found that she had met
her match. Directly she arrived in Denver she sent him her card, and he
called at the hotel, his manner courteous, but distinctly cold. He had
not forgotten, however, the promise made in New York, and he offered to
give her such help as he could. Aware of his close connection with the
local newspapers, she was glad to accept his offer to act as her press
representative. She even offered to pay him, but he flatly declined,
and the covert smile that accompanied the refusal made her angry.
"Why do you refuse?" she demanded. "Are you so rich?"
"I'm dead broke," he answered dryly. "But you see, I'm a queer
fellow--there are certain things I can't do--one of them is to take
money from a woman."
On another occasion, when she went a little out of her way to show him
attention he said, with brutal candor:
"Don't waste your time on me. I'm only a poor devil of a newspaper man.
There are plenty of fatter fowl to pluck. Denver's full of softheads
with money to burn."
She hated him for that speech. His careless words and disdainful
attitude cut her sensitive nature to the quick. Evidently he despised
her.
Yet for all that, he did not neglect her interests. For two weeks after
her arrival and previous to her debut, she was the most written about
person in town. The papers were full of her. It was invaluable
advertising and she tried to show her appreciation in other ways,
inviting him to dinner, and sending him little presents. But still he
held aloof, letting her understand plainly that he knew her record and
was not to be hoodwinked or inveigled. The truth was, that women of her
class did not interest him. Indeed, they filled him with aversion, yet
he pitied rather than condemned them. "One never knows," he used to say
when the question came up with his men friends, "what kind of a life
they were up against, or to what temptations they were subjected. The
most virtuous woman alive could not swear exactly what she would do if
confronted with certain conditions." This was a pet theory of his, and
it made him more charitable than others.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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