Floyd wondered if money could buy his armchair in the club-window. He was sure it couldn’t, but he was a gentlemanly young fellow; he wouldn’t hurt the man’s feelings. Destiny had been more than kind to him. He wasn’t grateful; he took life’s favors as a matter of course. In fact, he never gave it any thought. When his father died, sorrow blunted the keen edge of existence; now after a year he was waking up. His heart’s desire was Julie Gonzola. He had no fear; it was the eve of fulfillment.
Sitting there in the club-window, idly watching the traffic, he saw the Gonzola car. Julie was inside with Martin. They stopped at the entrance. Martin sprang out; Floyd waited for him with a pleasant touch of expectancy. Now there would be a long talk about Julie.
He came swinging in, his dark face quivering with excitement. Floyd didn’t take Martin seriously; his unpleasant emotional nature gave his actions a touch of exaggeration, which repelled Floyd, with his calm, undisturbed nature.
“Well, why all this excitement? What’s happened now?”
He spoke laughingly. Martin was always getting into some transient mix-up.
“I may as well tell you, you’ll have to know it. I’ve asked Julie to marry me.”
Floyd was on his feet, hurt, angry; Martin had listened hours to what he called “love ravings” about Julie, knowing he was waiting only for his year of mourning to expire. It was treachery. They faced each other—Martin had an air of triumph, but he turned away from Floyd’s accusing eyes.
“I’ve given her twenty-four hours to prepare her mother.”
“She’ll not consent.”
“Oh, won’t she? I know the way to make her.” Then he walked away.