MAXWELL E. FOSTER.
This Modern Generation
What is more exasperating, more insistent, and still more exasperating because of its insistence, than a telephone ringing beside one’s bed at two A. M.? There is indeed some doubt as to whether these modern appliances, together with the modern world which they purport to make happy, are not altogether out of place on this earth. In striving to be great, perhaps we mortals have obscured our immortality. At any rate, Mr. Harrow thought so, as he hurled his corpulent shape from the bed, crashed into the small table upon which the offensive instrument rested, swore, and put the receiver to his ear. A terrific buzzing ensued, and a vibration which was actually painful.
“Dammit,” he said, “hello, dammit.”
And now the reader will excuse us if we leave Mr. Harrow struggling with this all too mortal instrument, and proceed to an explanation of the causes of his disturbance; which task will require the remainder of the story for its consummation.
Betty Harrow lived with her father in this very modest house somewhere in New York City. The two of them were an affectionate pair, in spite of a large discrepancy in their characters. For, while the implacable gruffness of Mr. Harrow prevented him from understanding the youth and the beauty of his daughter’s emotions, still he was able to make allowances for what seemed to him too modern and dashing in her character. She filled a place in the old gentleman’s life which the death of his wife had left vacant. If Mr. Harrow had ever understood his wife, he was the only person that believed it. But there is a kind of understanding which arises from a tender and lasting affection, and which is really the main prerequisite to a happy married life. This Mr. Harrow possessed to a degree. He never tired of watching his wife manage the house, and never failed to kiss her tenderly, after an argument, even when his impatience had been aroused to the point of swearing at her. When she died, he felt strangely that it was a rebuke. He tried to compensate by increased tenderness toward his débutante daughter.
He found this especially easy because Betty was the image of her beautiful mother. Indeed if it had not been that she possessed one of those intrinsically virtuous characters, in whom moral principles are realized quite naturally without a struggle and without being mentally formulated—if she had not owed much to heredity—Betty would have been spoiled by her father’s attentions. As it was, however, she came out successfully, being one of the belles of that season; and had since lived with her father for three years. She was now just twenty-one.
Of course, Mr. Harrow was not one of those disagreeable early-Victorian fathers who force their daughters into undesirable marriages; but he had nevertheless a choice for Betty in the back of his mind, and allowed no opportunity to slip by without a sly hint concerning the desirability of this gentleman. The gentleman’s name was Conrad, and he had lately risen to a responsible position in one of the largest of the down-town brokerage houses. He was noted for his cleverness, his cool head, and for the astoundingly impersonal way in which he looked out at the world. He was one of those “objective” persons, who, if any criticism is to be made of them, regard life with too slight an emphasis upon the heart. Betty liked him well enough, though she did not perceive those same virtues in him which had attracted her father. But she was not yet prepared to sacrifice for a man already past thirty-five, her present life of laughter, young love, and gayety.