They talked on about one detail and another until finally Eugene, in spite of all his caution, saw his dreams maturing in this particular proposition. Fifty thousand dollars invested here would give him two thousand five hundred shares—one thousand preferred, and fifteen hundred common—whose face value, guaranteed by this magnificent piece of property, would be $250,000. Think of it, $250,000—a quarter of a million and that subject to a natural increase which might readily carry him into the millionaire class! His own brains would be of some value here, for Winfield was anxious to have him lay this out, and this would bring him in touch with not only one of the best real estate men in the city, but would bring him into contact with a whole host of financiers in business, people who would certainly become interested in this venture. Winfield talked easily of architects, contractors, railroad men, presidents of construction companies, all of whom would take stock for the business opportunities it would bring to them later and also of the many strings to be pulled which later would bring great gains to the company and save it from expenditures which would otherwise mean millions in outlay. Thus this proposed extension by the Long Island which would cost that railroad two hundred thousand dollars would cost the Sea Island Company nothing and would bring thousands of lovers of beauty there the moment conveniences were established to receive them. This was true of hotels to be built. Each would bring business for everything else. The company would lease the ground. The great hotel men would do their own building according to restrictions and plans laid down by the Sea Island Company. The only real expenditure would be for streets, sewers, lights, water, walks, trees, and the great one hundred foot wide boardwalk with concrete ornaments which would be the finest sea stroll in the world. But these could be undertaken by degrees.
Eugene saw it all. It was a vision of empire. "I don't know about this," he said cautiously. "It's a great thing, but I may not have the means to dip into it. I want to think it over. Meanwhile, I'll be glad to go out there and look over the ground with you."
Winfield could see that he had Eugene fascinated. It would be an easy matter to land him once he had his plans perfected. Eugene would be the type of man who would build a house and come and live there in the summer. He would interest many people whom he knew. He went away feeling that he had made a good start, and he was not mistaken.
Eugene talked the matter over with Angela—his one recourse in these matters—and as usual she was doubtful, but not entirely opposed. Angela had considerable caution, but no great business vision. She could not really tell him what he ought to do. Thus far his judgment, or rather his moves, had been obviously successful. He had been going up apparently because he was valuable as an assistant, not because he was a born leader.
"You'll have to judge for yourself, Eugene," Angela finally said. "I don't know. It looks fine. You certainly don't want to work for Mr. Colfax all your life, and if, as you say, they are beginning to plot against you, you had better prepare to get out sometime. We have enough now, really, to live on, if you want to return to your art."
Eugene smiled. "My art. My poor old art! A lot I've done to develop my art."
"I don't think it needs developing. You have it. I'm sorry sometimes I ever let you leave it. We have lived better, but your work hasn't counted for as much. What good has it done you outside the money to be a successful publisher? You were as famous as you are now before you ever started in on this line, and more so. More people know you even now as Eugene Witla, the artist, than as Eugene Witla, the magazine man."
Eugene knew this to be so. His art achievements had never forsaken him. They had grown in fame always. Pictures that he had sold for two hundred and four hundred had gone up to as high as three and four thousand in value, and they were still rising. He was occasionally approached by an art dealer to know if he never intended to paint any more. In social circles it was a constant cry among the elect, "Why don't you paint any longer?" "What a shame you ever left the art world!" "Those pictures of yours, I can never forget them."
"My dear lady," Eugene once said solemnly, "I can't live by painting pictures as I am living by directing magazines. Art is very lovely. I am satisfied to believe that I am a great painter. Nevertheless, I made little out of it, and since then I have learned to live. It's sad, but it's true. If I could see my way to live in half the comfort I am living in now and not run the risk of plodding the streets with a picture under my arm, I would gladly return to art. The trouble is the world is always so delightfully ready to see the other fellow make the sacrifice for art or literature's sake. Selah! I won't do it. So there!"
"It's a pity! It's a pity!" said this observer, but Eugene was not vastly distressed. Similarly Mrs. Dale had reproached him, for she had seen and heard of his work.