As he withdrew he could see the long look Carla gave the young man.
The men from Wall Street bored Mr Heywood. He tried to act like them but from time to time he could not help implying gently to them that he was a broker through heredity, not inclination. It was so much easier doing what his father had done than to do something else or nothing at all. He had a puritanical horror of doing nothing. His family had made him believe that it was necessary always to work and he rather liked the work, too. It made him think less about his own uniquely miserable life.
His wives were a large part of the general dreariness of his life. He never seemed to marry the right women. They either wanted his money or wanted to dominate him. He was used to domination by now but it made him uneasy sometimes to feel that his own will was so easily bent by others. He was always making stands, erecting firm barriers, but somehow the barriers usually collapsed. He wondered sometimes if he shouldn’t collect stamps or have a hobby like that.
Thinking of this, he began now to divorce himself from the group of Wall Street people. He promised to have lunch with one, to call up another; he bowed to a third, shook hands with a fourth and then he floated softly away, a look of quiet happiness on his face: he was now alone in the midst of a party.
Mr Heywood looked about him to see if there was anyone he might like to talk to. He would prefer some young woman who looked lonely. His three wives had all looked lonely at one period of the courtship and he had married them as much for this corresponding loneliness as for anything else. He had been mistaken three times but he was, in general, an optimist.
There seemed to be no lonely-looking young women. He sighed and was about to leave the party when he saw Robert Holton. He remembered him clearly; he was proud of his memory. Now he would have to speak to him. It would be difficult, but then he had always been taught that if a thing was particularly unpleasant it should be done: character was made in this fashion and character was more important than anything else. He proceeded to mould his character. He walked toward Robert Holton.
Mr Heywood approached Holton from behind and he could overhear his conversation with a dark pretty woman.
Holton was saying, “I think it might be interesting. After all, Carla, I don’t get out much and if a person like Lewis wants us to go I think we should.”
“If you want to, Bob.” She was a foreigner, thought Mr Heywood with interest. “I’d hoped we might have had dinner together and try to ... to talk of.... I’m not saying this well, I’m sorry.”