“She left less than a minute after Aurora and Horton. When I put out my hand to her she just touched it with the tips of her fingers, and all she said was, ‘I hope we’ll run across each other at my son’s, some time.’”
“They’ll change their tune when I get after them!” I exclaimed.
“What can you do?” sneered my wife. “They know your money goes to Walter. Besides, it’s all your fault.”
“My fault?” I said, in disgust—everything is always my fault, according to my wife.
“Yes—it’s your reputation,” she retorted, bitterly. “It’ll take two generations of respectability to live it down.”
I left the room abruptly. The injustice of this was so hideous that reply was impossible. After all my sacrifices, after all my stupendous achievements, after lifting my family from obscurity to the highest dignity—this was my reward! Yes, the highest dignity. I know how they sneer. I know how they whisper the ugly word that Helen heard at the dancing class. I see it in their eyes when I take them unawares. But—they cringe before me, they fear me, and they dare not offend me. What more could I ask? What do I care about their cowardly mutterings which they dare not let me hear?
In the upper hall I came upon Helen, sitting in the alcove, sobbing. “Poor Aurora! Poor Aurora!” she said, when I paused before her.
“Poor Aurora!” I retorted, angrily. “Your sister is married to one of the richest men in New York.”
“He tried to kiss me as they were leaving,” she went on, between sobs, “and I drew away and slapped him. When Aurora hugged me she whispered, ‘I don’t blame you—I detest him!’ Poor Aurora!”
I went into my apartment and slammed the door. I knew how it would turn out, and this hysterical nonsense infuriated me.