It was pathetic how the boy clung to his childish illusions. His mother could give him everything. Julie was crying silently.
The letter dropped from Floyd’s hand; waves of memory swept over him. The struggle between Joseph Abravanel and Father Cabello against him—the bitterness, the tragedy. He was on his feet; there was a youthful ring in his voice which had long been absent. He flung his spectacles, that badge of age, on the table. His eyes were young again.
“We must bring it about; the boy must not be disappointed. He must have his love dream; he must not lose the best part of his life.”
With a cry of joy Julie came to him and put her arms around his neck; they stood together, the light of that young romance across the sea reflected in their faces. Floyd bent down and whispered: “I was an ardent lover, wasn’t I, Julie? You were so sweet, so sweet.”
Then he remembered a business deal, and put on his spectacles. At the door he stopped.
“I shall write at once to Pedro Gonzala and make him a business proposition, which it would be madness to refuse; it will be a brilliant future for Joseph. This will cure him. He will see now that money can buy him everything! Don’t cry, Julie; it’s all for the best, and don’t miss the mail. It’s a five-cent stamp to Germany.”
The Colonel lunched that day at the club, with Floyd, who was full of his plan to “dazzle” the Gonzolas. The Colonel was very sympathetic, then he said with a touch of sadness,
“I’m getting old. People have no use for a bachelor, when he ceases to be eligible. If I had a boy like yours, a wife like yours, I’d be a happy man.”
Floyd thought a moment.
“I have been lucky; I come out well from very serious complications.”