Joe was all that; twenty-five, well-built, erect, strong of limb, well-dressed, even if sometimes a little bizarre in his outfit, more particularly in wide sombreros and low collars with loose ties; thoroughly content with his surroundings wherever they were, whether a student at the Beaux-Arts, living on the closest of allowances, or fighting his way in New York among his competitors; meeting each successive morning with a laugh and a song, and getting all the fun out of the remaining hours of which he was capable.
He had moved into these rooms but a fortnight before, and had at once proceeded to make himself as comfortable as his means and belongings would allow. His partner, Atwater, had come with him: there was the rent of the office to pay, and the wages of his two assistants, and they could save money by doubling up. With this in view, Joe had moved in some of the old furniture his father had left him, including the desk, and a set of shelves filled with books; had added a rare old Spanish sofa that had once stood in a hidalgo salon, to say nothing of the three or four easy chairs of the sofa-pillow-stuffed-armed variety, covered with chintz, that he had bought at an auction, and which had once graced his former quarters. Some small tables had then been commandeered—two were now surmounted by big lamps; a rug thrown on the floor and another before the fire—good ones both, one being a Daghestan and the other a Bokhara; and the two young men proceeded to make themselves at home. The bedrooms, one Atwater’s and the other Joe’s, although simply furnished, were equally comfortable, and the bathroom all that it should be.
As to creature comforts, did not Moses bring them their breakfast, and did not his wife Matilda cook the same on her own stove in the basement in the rear? For their dinners, some one of the restaurants on 14th Street could always be counted upon, unless some Wall Street potentate, or one of his innumerable friends, or the mother of Joe’s last lady love—he had a fresh one every month—laid a cover at her table in his honor.
His one predominant ambition in life, as has been said, was to succeed in his profession. His uncle had achieved both riches and distinction as one of the leading architects of his time and, divining Joe’s talents, had sent him abroad to uphold the honor of the family, a kindness the young fellow never forgot, and an obligation which he determined to repay by showing himself worthy of the old man’s confidence. If he had any other yearning, it was, as has also been said, to have a good time every moment of the day and night while the developing process was going on. And the scribe, who knew him well, freely admits that he succeeded, not only in New York, but in Paris.
When a posse of gendarmes followed a group of students along the Boul Miche who were shouting at the top of their voices their disapprovals or approvals, it made very little difference which, of some new law in the Latin Quarter, Joe’s voice was invariably the loudest. When the room under the sidewalk at the Taverne was full, every seat occupied, and the whole place in an uproar, it was Joe who was leading the merriment.
When, upon the dispersal of the gay revellers from the Quart’z’Arts ball, the Champs-Elysées was made the background of a howling mob of bareskinned warriors of the Stone Age, Joe led the chorus, the only student in the group who was entirely sober, intemperance not being one of the ways in which he enjoyed himself.
It was, therefore, quite in keeping with his idea of what a normal life should be that, when he nailed up his shingle in his down-town office, and started in to earn a crust and a reputation, this same spirit of fun should have dominated his idle hours to the exclusion of everything else except the habit of falling in love with every pretty girl he met.
If the beautiful and accomplished and fabulously rich Mrs. A. had a ball, Joe invariably led the german. If there was a week-end party at Mrs. B.’s, Joe’s engagements were always consulted and a day fixed to suit him. They couldn’t help it really. There was an air about the young fellow that the women, both married and single, could not resist. The married ones generally counted on him to make their parties a success, but the single ones manœuvred so as to be within arm’s reach whenever Joe’s partner was tired out and he ready for another.
Should you have tried to solve the problem of this ever-increasing popularity and, in marshalling your facts, had gone over his personal attractions—his well-groomed figure, never so attractive as in a dress suit, clear brown eyes, perfect teeth shining through straight, well-modelled lips shaded by a brown mustache blending into a close-cut, pointed beard, and had compared these fetching attractions with those possessed by dozens of other young men you knew, you would be still at sea.
Old Mrs. Treadwell, who, when Joe had sprained his ankle, had kept him at her country-seat for a whole week, came nearest to the solution. “Never thinks of himself, that young fellow.” That’s it. Hasn’t an ego anywhere about him. Never has had. Always thinking of you, no matter who you are. And he is sanely polite. Treats an apple woman as if she were a duchess, and a duchess, whenever he runs across one, as first a woman—after that she can be anything she pleases.