Peter heard his step and entered from his bedroom, where he had finished dressing for dinner. The old fellow seemed greatly troubled. One glance at Jack's face told the story of the afternoon.
“You have done nothing, Jack?” he asked in a despondent tone.
“No—have you?”
“Nothing. Portman has gone to his place on Long Island, the others were out. Whom did you see?”
“Some people we do business with; some of them laughed at me; some gave me advice; none of them had any money.”
“I expected it. I don't think you are quite aware of what you ask, my dear boy.”
“Perhaps I am not, but I am beginning to see. It is a new experience for me. If my father had wanted the money for the same purpose for which I want this, he would not have had to drive a mile from his house before he would have had it.”
“Your father lived in a different atmosphere, my boy; in another age, really. In his environment money meant the education of children, the comfort of women, and the hospitalities that make up social life.”
“Well, is not that true now, among decent people?” protested Jack, his mind going back to some homes he remembered.
“No—not generally—not here in New York. Money here means the right to exist on the planet; we fight for it as we do for our lives. Your own need of this ten thousand dollars proves it. The men I tried to find this afternoon have more than they need or ever will need; that's why I called on them. If I lost it, it wouldn't matter to them, but I would never hear the last of it all the same,” and a shudder ran through him.