Mr. Harold Vreeland silently wondered at the protean character of womanhood as he watched Mrs. Elaine Willoughby’s almost feverish gaiety in the few days which followed their new relation. “I can believe anything of a woman’s subtle arts after this,” he wonderingly said, as he made himself a graceful factor in the joys under holly and mistletoe.
Not a single reference to the coming business had ever escaped her, and she was as merrily impartial in her favors as a girl at her first ball.
There was hardly a financier in the house party, Noel Endicott’s visit of a day being a mere duty call. “She evidently wishes to hide our intimacy from all, and to publicly impress only the social character on our friendship,” mused Vreeland.
“Lady mine! you are a deep one!” he mused. Never had he been placed next to her at dinner, and even at the cotillion’s trifling favors she had only sought him among the very last.
He was aware that all New York knew of how Hathorn had been coached up by her into financial glory. “That mistake she will not repeat. It’s a case of blood and the secret warpath, now,” reflected Vreeland.
But with the check for twenty-five thousand dollars in his pocket, he felt that his silence was paid for in advance. He was swimming gaily on with the current now.
He had calmed Dr. Hugo Alberg down into an expectant friendship by agreeing to dine with him once a week and to exchange regular reports at Martin’s.
“So far, I have found out nothing, Doctor,” said the lying Vreeland; “but I have written out West. I understand that she has immense properties in Colorado. If I get a clew, you and I will work it up together.
“In the meantime watch over her yourself, and then tell me all.”
Alberg was in high glee at his social début, and confided to Vreeland that their patroness was in the most brilliant health.