“But the opportunities are so much greater there for a man of ability.”
“Oh, ability!” he derided. “New York is loaded to the water line with ability in garrets living on crusts. To win out there a man must have a pull, or he must have the instinct for making money breed, for taking what other men earn.”
She studied him, a good-looking, alert American, sheet-armored in the twentieth century polish of selfishness, with an inordinate appetite for success. Certainly he looked every inch a winner.
“I believe you could do it. You're not too scrupulous to look out for yourself.” Her daring impudence mocked him lightly.
“I'm not so sure about that.” James liked to look his conscience in the face occasionally. “I respect the rights of my fellows. In the money centers you can't do that and win. And you've got to win. It doesn't matter how. Make good—make good! Get money—any way you can. People will soon forget how you got it, if you have it.”
“Dear me! I didn't know you were so given to moral reflections.” To Alice, who had just come into the room to settle where they should spend their Sunday, Valencia explained with mock demureness the subject of their talk. “Mr. Farnum and I are deploring the immoral money madness of New York and the debilitating effects of modern civilization. Will you deplore with us, my dear?”
The younger woman's glance included the cigarette James had thrown away and the one her cousin was still smoking. “Why go as far as New York?” she asked quietly.
Farnum flushed. She was right, he silently agreed. He had no business futtering away his time in a pink boudoir. Nor could he explain that he hoped his time was not being wasted.
“I must be going,” he said as casually as he could.
“Don't let me drive you away, Mr. Farnum. I dropped in only for a moment.”