Sebastian Anthon turned his blue eyes to her wonderingly. “John thought it best. Art wasn’t much of a career then, and your father rather managed all of us. We had good times in soixante-quinze,” he added musingly, standing still to peer up at the maze of broken roofs.
The girl followed his gaze sympathetically. She could suspect a little more of the story than the old man’s words told. She had felt the iron will that until two years ago when death stepped in, had governed the Anthons. The elder brother’s practical power, his intolerance, his indomitable activity, had bent them all. His little brick business had expanded, until all the Anthons, root and branch, were brick-makers, and each member of the family had his block of brick-stock. The boys, as they came along, were drafted into the business at twenty, and the women were pensioned off. John Anthon had governed the state in St. Louis; Sebastian had been his protesting but faithful satrap in New York.
When John died, leaving bricks at 200, with regular 12 per cent dividends, the business so ably managed that it might run on until man had no further need for bricks, or clay was exhausted, Sebastian Anthon slyly withdrew from his post and looked about for amusement for his declining years. He remembered wistfully how he had once thought of a garret room in Paris, of long days in Barbazon; he could not paint now, and so he had taken to buying pictures.
“And that was why you helped Mr. Erard,” his niece insinuated thoughtfully.
The old man nodded, and added half apologetically, “He can have the life, the hope,—even if he doesn’t do much.” Perhaps Erard had grown to look upon him as a skilful financial agent, who provided both capital and interest. This attitude might be immoral, but the patron received his compensation.
“But he has done something; he will do something,” the young woman replied buoyantly.
“It’s a growth that becomes sterile easily—terribly easily,” her uncle mused. “Perhaps one can’t assist nature, yet to have the chance, that is the great thing.” He looked once more wistfully over the roofs, and then turned into the gardens. He stopped again as they came out behind the palace, with its gracious façade just visible in the twilight and fog. “I used to come out here to walk. There was more going on then everywhere—students and politics. You never knew what might happen.”
When they reached Foyot’s they found Wilbur and Mrs. Anthon already at their oysters. Seated at table with them was a blond young man, Mrs. Anthon’s youngest son, who was examining carefully the wine-card. As his sister came in, he glanced up with the remark,—
“Well, what did you think of Uncle Seb’s little Jew? Wilbur and mamma have been slanging him ever since they came in.”
Mrs. Anthon broke out at once. “Your young friend seems to have made himself comfortable, Sebastian. I suppose painting bath-tubs must pay pretty well. I must say, and I am no prude, as you know, Sebastian, that I can’t understand all this loose art. What good is it for an American to come over here and learn to paint naked women in a bath-tub, so that you can see the water swashing about? They can’t sell such things in America. It’s well enough for once in a while to see ’em over here, but we don’t want that kind of picture to hang up in our homes. I used to say to John, buy good pleasing copies, something that’s elevating, or nice country scenes, but don’t bring any of that modern French trash into my parlours.”