Light-Fingered Gentry

by David Graham Phillips

And when they had had coffee, which, Hugo said, reminded him of the Café Anglais at Paris, Siersdorf took them for a second tour of the house, pointing out the conveniences, the luxuries, the evidences of good taste, expanding upon them, eulogizing them, feeling as he talked that he had created them. "A gentleman's home!" he cried again and again. "It'll be a rebuke to all these vulgarians who are trying to show how much money they've got. Why, you never think, as you walk around here, 'How much this cost,' but only, 'How beautiful it is, and how comfortable.' A house for a gentleman. A gentleman's home—that's what I call it."

At each burst of enthusiasm from her father, Amy beamed on Alois. And Alois was dizzy with happiness and hope.

XIV

WOMAN'S DISTRUST—AND TRUST

Having got what she wanted of Alois, Amy now permitted her better nature to reproach her for having absorbed him so long and so completely. She assumed Narcisse was blaming, was disliking, her for it; and, indeed, Narcisse had been watching the performance with some anger and more disgust. Before Alois came upon the scene, and while Amy was still in the first flush of enthusiasm for her new friend, Narcisse had begun to draw back. She saw that Amy, like everyone who has always had his own way and so has been made capricious, was without capacity for real friendship. If she had thought Amy worth while, she would have held her—for Narcisse was many-sided and could make herself so interesting that few indeed would not have seemed tame and dull after her. But she decided that Amy was not worth while; and to cut short Amy's constant attempts to interfere between her and her work, she emphasized her positive, even aggressive, individuality, instead of softening it. Servants, fortune-hunters, flatterers, the army of parasites that gathers to swoop upon anyone with anything to give, had made Amy intolerant of the least self-assertiveness; and to be a very porcupine of prickly points; Narcisse had only to give way to her natural bent for the candid.

For example, Narcisse had common sense—like most people of good taste; for, is not sound sense the basis of sound taste, indeed the prime factor in all sound development of whatever kind? Now, there is nothing more inflammatory than steadfast good sense. It rebukes and mocks us, making us seem as stupid and as foolish as we fear we are. Narcisse would not eat things that did not agree with her; it irritated self-indulgent Amy against her, when they lunched together and she refused to eat as foolishly as did Amy. Again, Narcisse would not drive when she could walk, because driving was as bad for health and looks as walking was good for them. Amy knew that, with her tendency to fat, she ought never to drive. But she was lazy, doted on the superiority driving seemed to give, was nervous about the inferiority "the best people" attached to a woman's walking. So she persisted in driving, and ruffled at Narcisse for being equally persistent in the sensible course. It is the common conception of friendship that one's friend must do what one wishes and is no friend if he does not; Amy felt that way about it.

Alois had come back from abroad just in time to save the Fosdick architectural trade to the firm. Narcisse would soon have alienated it—and would have been glad to see it go; in fact, since she had realized where the Fosdick money came from, she with the greatest difficulty restrained herself from bursting forth to Alois in "impractical sentimentalities" which she knew would move him only against herself.

Amy expected Narcisse's enthusiasm toward Overlook to be very, very restrained indeed. "She must be jealous," thought Amy, "because she has had so little to do with it, and I so much." But she had to admit that she had misjudged the builder. It is not easy satisfactorily to praise to anyone a person or a thing he has in his heart; the most ardent praise is likely to seem cold, and any lapse in discrimination rouses a suspicion of insincerity. If Narcisse had not felt the beauty of what her brother and Amy had done, she could not have made Amy's enthusiasm for her flame afresh, as it did. Before Narcisse finished, Amy thought that she herself had not half appreciated how well she and Alois had wrought. "But it would never have been anything like so satisfactory," said she in a burst of impulsive generosity, "if you hadn't started it all."

"I wish I could feel that I had some part in it," said Narcisse, "but I can't, in honesty."

And she meant it. Those who have fertile, luxuriant minds rarely keep account of the ideas they are constantly and prodigally pouring out. Narcisse had forgotten—though Amy had not—that it was she who was inspired by that site to dream the dream that her brother and Amy had realized. It was on the tip of Amy's tongue to say this; but she decided to refrain. "I probably exaggerate the influence of what she said," she thought. "We saw it together and talked it over together, and no doubt each of us borrowed from the other"—let him who dares, criticise this, in a world that shines altogether by reflected lights.