But the black-eye dealt the residential district long ago had not yet cleared up. Real property of that 57 sort was still dull and inactive except for a flare-up now and then along Park Avenue and Fifth.
War, naturally, had not improved matters; and, as far as the residential part of their business was concerned, Sharrow & Co. transacted the bulk of it in leasing apartments and, now and then, a private house, usually on the West Side.
That morning, in the offices of Sharrow & Co., a few clients sat beside the desks of the various men who specialised in the particular brand of real estate desired: several neat young girls performed diligently upon typewriters; old man Sharrow stood at the door of his private office twirling his eyeglasses by the gold chain and urbanely getting rid of an undesirable visitor––one Angelo Puma, who wanted some land for a moving picture studio, but was persuasively unwilling to pay for it.
He was a big man, too heavy, youngish, with plump olive skin, black hair, lips too full and too red under a silky moustache, and eyes that would have been magnificent in a woman––a Spanish dancer, for example––rich, dark eyes, softly brilliant under curling lashes.
He seemed to covet the land and the ramshackle stables on it, but he wanted somebody to take back a staggering mortgage on the property. And Mr. Sharrow shook his head gently, and twirled his eyeglasses.
“For me,” insisted Puma, “I do not care. It is good property. I would pay cash if I had it. But I have not. No. My capital at the moment is tied up in production; my daily expenses, at present, require what cash I have. If your client is at all reasonable–––”
“He isn’t,” said Sharrow. “He’s a Connecticut Yankee.”
For a moment Angelo Puma seemed crestfallen, then his brilliant smile flashed from every perfect tooth:
“That is very bad for me,” he said, buttoning-his showy overcoat. “Pardon me; I waste your time––” pulling on his gloves. “However, if your client should ever care to change his mind–––”