There were, however, absences that expressed the resentment of certain old friends of the family who had, in Mrs. Blair’s phrase, “taken a stand.” These were fewer than Mrs. Blair had hoped for but Mrs. Wingfield did not appear; the pastor emeritus of Memorial Church, a gentleman who had been favoured by fortune and was in no wise dependent on Craighill patronage, had declined earlier an invitation to dine and a request for the honour of his presence at the reception; and a retired general of the army, who sat with Roger Craighill among the elders of Memorial, not only scorned these overtures but expressed discreetly his feeling that the marriage had been an act of disloyalty to the Craighill children. There were not more than half a dozen of these instances, and while they were not, to be sure, of great importance, Mrs. Blair magnified their significance and took pains to thank the absentees later for their attitude. Dick Wingfield, keen in such matters, found upon analysis that those who, like his own mother, rejected the newcomer, were persons who had nothing whatever to lose by incurring the disfavour of Roger Craighill. His mother was rich and an independent spirit if ever one existed; the old minister’s income could not be disturbed by Roger Craighill or anyone else; the retired general had, as a lieutenant, invested his scant savings in Omaha and Seattle town lots, and checks from Washington were only an incident of his income. Nobody, in fact, whom Roger Craighill could possibly reach, no one likely to need his help in any way whatever, had joined in this tame rebellion.
Wingfield, not easily astonished by anything, was nevertheless amazed to meet Walsh at Mrs. Blair’s reception. He imagined that he knew Walsh pretty well, but their acquaintance had been a matter of contact at the Club, warmed into friendliness during a period in which Wingfield had, as he put it, “affected horse.” Wingfield was looking for the youngest débutante when he came upon Walsh stolidly smoking in the Blair library. Walsh in a white waistcoat was something new under the sun. It occurred to Wingfield that he had never seen him in anyone’s house before. He stopped to smoke a cigarette that he might, if possible, analyze Walsh’s emotions in this alien air.
“So you’ve quit the Colonel—taken over the Wayne-Craighill Company. If you have any stock to sell I’d like to have a slice. I’ve always thought the grocery business must be entertaining. Its ethnological relations would appeal to me. I understand that these people who pile themselves on our social dump—the riff-raff of Europe—bring their delectable appetites with them, and that your cellars are as savoury as a Chinese stinkpot with the bouquet of finnan haddie and such epicurean delights. So Wayne’s going to stay in, is he?”
Walsh took the cigar from his mouth and nodded.
“Yes; Wayne’s vice-president of the company now.”
“That’s good. You and I are the only people hereabouts who really appreciate Wayne. There are things that Wayne can do.”
Walsh nodded again. He settled himself back in his chair comfortably and looked at Wingfield with liking. A bronze Buddha, a striking item of the lares and penates of the Blair home, gazed down upon them benevolently.
“Wayne,” said Walsh deliberately, “was born to be a man of power. He was built for big transactions.”
Wingfield was surprised into silence. He had never before heard Walsh express himself as to the character of any man and there was something akin to heartiness in this endorsement of Wayne Craighill. Wingfield forgot his quest of the débutante in his eagerness to hear the inscrutable Walsh’s opinions. Fearing that he might relapse into one of the silences for which he was famous, Wingfield applied the prod.
“The Colonel never understood Wayne,” he remarked leadingly.