“The Winthrop Museum. Tuesday, Thursday, Saturday (admission free); other days fifty cents.” It was Friday.
The sleepy official handed him a card. Martin threw down his fifty cents and entered. There were a few stragglers strolling from case to case, mostly strangers. A large omnibus, “Seeing New York,” waited outside; the man on the box blew the horn.
“This is the house of the celebrated Winthrop family whose ancestors came over in the Mayflower. The owners have generously donated their historical relics to the city; ten minutes allowed for inspection.”
He looked at the old furniture, falling to pieces from want of repair; some were really family relics, but the parading of them—“who cares for other people’s old sticks”? The caretaker was putting on his hat to go when Martin spoke to him.
“I’m Mr. Steele. I’m going to close up this dugout.” He put ten dollars in the man’s hand. With one strong wrench he tore down the sign, locked the door, and put the key in his pocket.
He stopped before the Garrison home; it was lit up inside. He opened the gate, shut it with a sharp click, and went up toward Fifth Avenue. The row of small brick houses were in a sorry plight. On Maud Ailsworth’s window there was a sign, “Table Board”; on the Gonzola mansion, “For Sale.” “The mother and grandfather dead, Julie married.” Then he bought the biggest basket of red roses he could find, and followed on the heels of the messenger.
Floyd was in the nursery, revelling in the beauty of mother and child—a wonderful Murillo picture. Julie laughed at his caressing epithets, “Two angels to take care of”—etc., etc., and all the rest a man like Floyd would naturally say to the young mother of his child. She went to dinner leaning on his arm. Julie was one of the rare women who become beautiful with motherhood; from the first moment of its consciousness, she was a changed being. The grief and horror of her double misfortune vanished; her eyes became larger, more brilliant. The dead white of her skin changed into a soft pink; the rippling hair shone, getting more and more rebellious, escaping in soft curls about her face.
She gave a cry of pleasure at the roses on the table.
“Oh! how gorgeous! Floyd, you mustn’t spoil me like this.”
“I didn’t send them.”