He had climbed Pike’s Peak, had shot big game in the Andes. And then he had come back to civilization and taken a clerkship in the brokerage offices of Parker, [38] ]Gaines and McCaffery, to study banking methods from the bottom up.
At thirty-eight, or it may have been thirty-nine, he was an authority on banking, stood ace high in Washington, and was known as a patron of the arts. The Randolph family never understood why he had gone to all that bother. It was so old, so distinguished, that to have a member attempt to distinguish it further was almost an insult. However, Rand, as he was known among intimates, never troubled to consult the family as to his movements. He saw as little of them as possible.
“Don’t concern yourself about me,” he was in the habit of telling his sister when she tried to propel him in the direction of one of her parties. “I’m a hopeless sort of devil who likes to choose his own friends.”
Once she persuaded him to attend a tea and he appeared with a youth in a shiny coat and cuffs that separated from his shirt.
“He’s a coming violinist,” he whispered. “I thought you’d like him to play. But he’s hungry—give him something to eat first.”
She never attempted to persuade him after that.
Parsinova met Hubert Randolph in a funny little restaurant which years back had been a stable. It was conducted by a group of painters for the benefit of a Disabled Veteran’s Relief Fund all their own. He had arranged the party for the Sunday following her meeting with Seabury but it took her old friend another week to convince her that she could carry it through.
The occasion was not propitious. She had had a bad [39] ]half hour that afternoon with Kane when he resented the omnipresence of her mother.
“She annoys me. She seems to be behind you like a shadow. You must send her away! Some one is bound to discover her.”
“That is impossible. She goes nowhere, sees no one. I shall keep her here.” Parsinova’s eyes glittered and for a moment it seemed likely that a backstage tantrum would be duplicated in fact.