The funeral over, the will read by Colonel Garland, the sole executor, the few distant relatives from far and near come and gone, Floyd took up again the routine of life. Mr. Garrison had left everything to his son, whom he hoped would marry young and be happy in the old home, leaving it to his son after him. The Garrisons had always lived well, in a modest way, befitting their position. He was sure Floyd would keep up the family tradition. He left money to many philanthropic institutions and to his club where he and his father before him had spent many pleasant hours and where he hoped his boy would sit many years after him.
Colonel Garland, commenting on the will to Martin, said:
“A sane, righteous testament. He was a good man....”
7
In the months that followed, Floyd saw little of Julie. She called several times with her mother, who was very sweet and amiable.
“I hope when you feel more like seeing people you’ll come to us often,” said Mrs. Gonzola.
Floyd looked at Julie, who smiled at him, and returned the pressure of his hand. Martin was a great deal at the Gonzolas’, but he didn’t mention that to Floyd. One Sunday afternoon Mrs. Gonzola came into the parlor, Martin was sitting very close to Julie, reading in rich passionate tones a love poem by Oscar Wilde; Julie started up and Martin left, but all that day she couldn’t meet her mother’s clairvoyant eyes.
“I don’t like him, Julie. He’s no class. He was an unmannerly boy and he’s a dangerous man. I’ve told James to say you’re out, the next time he calls. If you meet him accidentally, avoid him.”
“Yes, Mother,” said Julie. After that she saw him often with the assistance of a sympathetic French teacher, whose room was post-office and rendezvous for the lovers.
Martin gave Julie glimpses of “life.” He took her to all kinds of strange places—a chop suey restaurant, with its unpalatable dishes, soft lights, and insidious Chinamen; a dancing cafe which at that time was not supposed to be a place for young ladies—but best of all was Hippolyte.