“You looked tired this morning; didn’t you sleep well?” said Julie.
“As well as usual.”
Floyd’s mind was overstrained; his accumulating interests kept him on a severe tension. His eyes troubled him and he wore strong owl-like spectacles framed in tortoise shell which gave him a look of comic solemnity. He didn’t tell Julie how very badly he slept; his many speculations took gibbering forms and danced around his pillow. He spent whole nights in his den, where a man had “sweated blood.” He was beginning to feel the significance of that expression. At first the thought of possessing a million made his head reel, now he laughed at his modest pretensions. Desire grows until it ceases to be servant and becomes master. He hunted gain like a gambler who risks his last dollar. Envious competitors said, “Garrison’s getting to be a skin-flint; he’d sell his soul for money.”
It came back to him from a friend; he wasn’t annoyed, but wondered in a vague way if it were really true.
When the news arrived of Cardinal Cabello’s sudden death and Joseph’s decision, Julie took it very hard; she spent days in the convent praying for her son’s soul.
Floyd consulted with Dr. McClaren.
“She’ll get over it. It’s only a temporary disturbance. A bit of good news now will set her all right again. And how are you, Mr. Garrison? My medicine worked well, I see.”
“Oh! yes,” said Floyd, “but times are bad—a man must be careful how he invests his money.”
“That never troubles me; I haven’t any to invest.”
“You’ve been a successful doctor, haven’t you?”