Having discounted the romantic element of his thrilling rescue at Narragansett Pier, Travers Gladwin fell into a moody silence. The more volatile Barnes felt the influence and strove to fight it off. While he, too, had been set upon the trail of romance at the behest of his father, he felt it was too early to indulge in pessimistic reveries, so he groped for another subject with which to revive the interest of his friend.
“I say, Travers,” he led off, rising from his chair and indicating the walls with a sweep of his hand, “as I remarked before, you’ve got a wonderful collection here.”
“Yes,” assented the young millionaire without animation, “but, as I said before, I soon got tired of it. The pastime of collecting pictures became a burden, and I was glad to get abroad and forget it.”
“Well,” said Barnes, “I guess the only thing for you to do is to go to work at something.”
“I know it,” grumbled Gladwin, “but what’s the incentive? I don’t want any more money––what I 66 have now is the biggest sort of a nuisance. Just see the trouble I’m in for with my lawyer and that man Watkins, though to tell you the truth I am beginning to enjoy the novelty of that.”
The young man got up and assumed a more lively expression.
“Do you know, Whitney,” he ran on, “this travelling incognito isn’t half bad. They are really getting suspicious of me at the Ritz.”
“But surely some one there ought to know you.”
“Not a soul! It was opened while I was abroad. You know I registered as Thomas Smith and I even took a chance and went down into the grill room for lunch. And there, Whitney,” cried Gladwin with an explosive burst of enthusiasm, “I nearly got a thrill––another one like that on the trolley car. The last place you’d expect it, too, in the midst of stiff formality and waiters so cold and haughty they might have risen from the dead.”
“I suppose this was the ravishing girl at the cigar counter?” said Barnes, ironically.