“I’m going to marry Julie.”
“Not if I know it.”
Martin turned and swept the boy with a cold disdain terrible in one so young. It hurt Floyd; he remembered that look, years after. He said nothing, but turned to go.
Martin stopped him.
“Stay with me; I’m lonesome.”
There was a touch of pathos in his voice.
“Come, I’ll show you some family relics.”
He led the way to the garret, four stories high; it was filled with old furniture, spinning wheels, oil paintings—some wretchedly bad, others fairly good, all with heavy gold frames; every piece was ticketed with a name and date, in the different generations of the family.
Then Martin became confidential.
“I’ll tell you something, but don’t mention it to my mother. These things are all fakes; she haunts the auction sales, she’s a good judge—she knows what fits in, she’s got a whole lot more in storage. We’re going to move away from here.”