“It’s difficult . . . to apply oneself at night.”
“Well, I’m sure you’re not very busy in the daytime. . . . What’s the matter with you, Pell? You would do very well here, if you would only wake up. You appear to be half asleep most of the time.”
“I will try to do better,” mumbled Wilfred, loathing himself.
He went back to his desk, seething. The fool! The fool! The empty-headed, dull, rich fool! It’s lucky he has his money-bags to give him some identity! He hasn’t even got brains enough to go to the devil by himself, but must hire a boy to lead him!
Then his mood changed. He sat staring at the square glass inkstands on his desk, with their lacquered iron covers; cheap stuff stamped out by the million. What is to become of me? he thought with a sinking heart; I undertake to rage at everything, yet I am no good myself. There is no beginning place in me; I am spread all over. I want to be . . . I want to be everything, and I have started at nothing. Everything I try to grasp dissolves in my hand. I exist in a fog! . . . God! how I hate business! My father was a failure, and I am a failure, too. What is one to do if one has the instincts of a gentleman and no money . . . !
Dobereiner was looking over at Wilfred in horrified commiseration. He could imagine nothing worse than to be rebuked by Mr. Gore. During the rest of the day his manner towards Wilfred was gentle. Wilfred glared at him helplessly.
II
Joe had chosen the top floor in a row of old walk-up flats on West Fifty-Eighth street. The neighborhood was one of the best in town; but the house itself was unimproved, and a little run-down; anybody might live in such a house. It was pleasant too, to walk up the interminable, dark, shabbily-carpeted stairs, and at the top burst into a paradise of red velvet portières and Oriental divans crowded with feather cushions. Joe had bought all the stuff himself; it had been great to pick out the very best quality velours and the thickest rugs. It was Mr. Gore who stipulated for a walk-up apartment. In a house with an elevator, you ran the chance of a blackmailing elevator boy.
Jewel Le Compte (Mr. Gore had suggested the changed spelling of her name) sat half reclining in a Morris chair, sewing a ribbon strap on a sheer undergarment, with microscopic stitches. Joe lay stretched out on a divan with his hands under his head, watching her. She was wrapped in a blue silk kimono embroidered with pink chrysanthemums; Joe had picked that out, too. Her legs were crossed, and from the foot which was elevated, a quilted blue mule dangled free of her rosy heel. Her plentiful black hair was gathered in a rough twist on top of her head: and she had no make-up on her face. Joe liked to see her without her war paint; when she left it off, the babyish look came back to her cheeks; they no longer looked all of a piece; but showed delicate, dusky discolorations and unevennesses. A damn pretty girl, Jewel; and how well she suited her luxurious surroundings! He had had the wit to foresee that while she was still in Allen street.
From time to time Jewel looked up from her sewing, and her eyes travelled with pleasure over Joe from head to foot.