“No; I don’t know that I am. I can hold on, and when this panic is over the stock will undoubtedly go up again. I have only a million in it. But I am sorry for Creighton. About two-thirds of all he’s got are in this railroad, and I’m afraid he won’t be able to hold on. But let us drop the subject. The thing has got to rest until to-morrow morning, and I may as well rest, too. Besides, nothing weighs very heavily when I am at home. Are we booked for anything to-night?”
“There is Mary Gallatin’s musicale. She has Melba and Maurel. And there is the big dance at the Latimer Burr’s. But if you are tired I don’t care a rap about either. Augusta can go with Harriet.”
“Do stay home; that’s a good girl. I am tired; and what is worse, a lot of men will get me into the smoking-room and talk ‘slump.’ If I could spend the evening lying on the divan in your boudoir, while you read or played to me, I should feel that life was quite all that it should be.”
“Well, you shall. We have so few good times together in winter.”
He pressed her hand gratefully. “Tell me,” he said after a moment, “do you think this Socialism mooning of Augusta’s means anything?”
“No,” she said contemptuously. “I hope that has not been worrying you. Girls must have their fads. Last year it was pink parrots; this year it is Socialism; next year it will be weddings. By the way, what do you think of the Duke?”
“I can’t say I’ve thought about him at all.”
“He is really quite charming.”
“Is he? His title is, I suppose you mean. Have you seen him since?”
“Since when? Oh, the night of Don Giovanni. I forgot that you had not been home to tea this week. He has dropped in with Fletcher several times.”