He became impatient. Why make the thing so complicated? It was simple enough; they both wanted her and they’d have to fight for her as they did as boys. They never knew which of them she liked.
The telephone rang. He took up the receiver. It was Mrs. Gonzola’s voice.
“Is it you, Floyd?”
“Yes.”
“Could you come over for a few moments? It’s late, but—”
“I’ll come at once.”
He stood before the mirror in the hall. It reflected a young man, clean-shaven, straight brows, eyes deep blue, almost black, the mouth set with suppressed pain; that was all the image gave out—nothing of the unsounded depths. The narcotic of ease and inherited aloofness had kept the lion of character sleeping.
Passing the Dillon house, Floyd noticed vaguely a sign “For Sale.” Tom Dillon had inherited a large fortune which his father made in whiskey; he had boasted he would drink up the well-stocked cellar before he got rid of the house. It was illuminated tonight; he heard music and loud laughter; Tom was on the job.
In the parlor of the Gonzola mansion the butler pressed a button which lit up the unaccountable glass prisms of the electrified fixture; it was a familiar room. As a boy, its grandeur had awed him; when he grew older, he thought it old-fashioned, but he didn’t want to see it changed. He knew little of the other part of the house, excepting the dining-room which was in old leather, heavy, dark. He had always spoken with superiority of the “charming Spanish atmosphere” of the room. Tonight it struck him differently. “What an ignorant fool he was.” A man who mentally kicks himself for being all kinds of a fool is often awakening to wisdom.
The floor was parquet, smooth and polished. There were Oriental rugs and deep armchairs, upholstered in Turkish, and a broad divan with wonderful silk rugs thrown over it. Fur animals lay about with enormous heads and glassy eyes. The window hangings were of costly lace. He had often looked at that bronze figure in a corner; tonight it spoke to him. It was the Moses of Michael Angelo—a noble head with a rippling, flowing beard. The walls were covered with family portraits in gilt frames, turning old gold with age. He had said with authority “they are Van Dykes.” Now he noticed signed names unknown to him, probably young foreign artists. He stood before a portrait of Pedro Gonzola, Julie’s grandfather, painted in Amsterdam, after a ball costume. A very handsome young cavalier in black velvet with white lace falling over his long, tapering fingers—he thought of Martin’s coarse hands; no, the room was not Spanish.