Jimmy Potter was born to “no end of easy money,” and so his dashing senior partner’s genius for finance was strongly buttressed by the whirlwind of cash which clustered around Jimmy Potter’s lucky head.
All sorts of financial bees seemed to swarm around Potter and quietly settle in his hive.
“What’s the use of making a row?” he often remarked. “Sit still, and what you want in life will come to you.” Mr. James Potter of New York was an Epicurean disciple.
The blood mounted to Vreeland’s forehead as he noted all the deprecating courtesy of Hathorn’s welcome.
“Damn him! I’ll give him a bit of a bluff,” he quickly decided, under the inspiration of some bold, familiar spirit.
There was an air of quiet comfort in the careless response of Vreeland.
“I have just fallen into a good bit of money by my father’s death, and so have come on here to enjoy myself. I may spend a couple of years abroad.”
Vreeland then blessed that daring, familiar spirit which so saucily suggested his “cheeky” retort, as the man who had been his chum and fellow of several Greek letter societies stopped short. “Wait for me at the station, old fellow. We are bothered yet with some ladies. They leave at the station. Then we will dine later at the club and talk over old times a bit. You’ll come, too, won’t you, Potter?”
Jimmy Potter carelessly nodded an assent from sheer laziness, and then the two members of the jeunesse dorée
, passed on into the boudoir car.