He felt a little piqued about it—for he had noted some of these points for himself, and felt a little proud about them. Apparently he was to be nothing but a figure-head in the case! And he turned to the phone and called up Mr. Hasbrook, and asked him what he expected him to do with these papers. There was the whole case here; and was he simply to take them as they stood?
No one could have replied more considerately than did Mr. Hasbrook. The papers were for Montague’s benefit—he would do exactly as he pleased with them. He might use them as they stood, or reject them altogether, or make them the basis for his own work—anything that appealed to his judgment would be satisfactory. And so Montague turned about and wrote an acceptance to the formal invitation which had come from the Eldridge Devons.
Later on in the day Oliver called up, and said that he was to go out to dinner the following evening, and that he would call for him at eight. “It’s with the Jack Evanses,” Oliver added. “Do you know them?”
Montague had heard the name, as that of the president of a chain of Western railroads. “Do you mean him?” he asked.
“Yes,” said the other. “They’re a rum crowd, but there’s money in it. I’ll call early and explain it to you.”
But it was explained sooner than that. During the next afternoon Montague had a caller—none other than Mrs. Winnie Duval. Some one had left Mrs. Winnie some more money, it appeared; and there was a lot of red tape attached to it, which she wanted the new lawyer to attend to. Also, she said, she hoped that he would charge her a lot of money by way of encouraging himself. It was a mere bagatelle of a hundred thousand or so, from some forgotten aunt in the West.
The business was soon disposed of, and then Mrs. Winnie asked Montague if he had any place to go to for dinner that evening: which was the occasion of his mentioning the Jack Evanses. “O dear me!” said Mrs. Winnie, with a laugh. “Is Ollie going to take you there? What a funny time you’ll have!”
“Do you know them?” asked the other.
“Heavens, no!” was the answer. “Nobody knows them; but everybody knows about them. My husband meets old Evans in business, of course, and thinks he’s a good sort. But the family—dear me!”
“How much of it is there?”
“Why, there’s the old lady, and two grown daughters and a son. The son’s a fine chap, they say—the old man took him in hand and put him at work in the shops. But I suppose he thought that daughters were too much of a proposition for him, and so he sent them to a fancy school—and, I tell you, they’re the most highly polished human specimens that ever you encountered!”
It sounded entertaining. “But what does Oliver want with them?” asked Montague, wonderingly.
“It isn’t that he wants them—they want him. They’re cumbers, you know—perfectly frantic. They’ve come to town to get into Society.”
“Then you mean that they pay Oliver?” asked Montague.
“I don’t know that,” said the other, with a laugh. “You’ll have to ask Ollie. They’ve a number of the little brothers of the rich hanging round them, picking up whatever plunder’s in sight.”
A look of pain crossed Montague’s face; and she saw it, and put out her hand with a sudden gesture. “Oh!” she exclaimed, “I’ve offended you!”
“No,” said he, “it’s not that exactly—I wouldn’t be offended. But I’m worried about my brother.”
“How do you mean?”
“He gets a lot of money somehow, and I don’t know what it means.”
The woman sat for a few moments in silence, watching him. “Didn’t he have any when he came here?” she asked.
“Not very much,” said he.
“Because,” she went on, “if he didn’t, he certainly managed it very cleverly—we all thought he had.”
Again there was a pause; then suddenly Mrs. Winnie said: “Do you know, you feel differently about money from the way we do in New York. Do you realize it?”
“I’m not sure,” said he. “How do you mean?”
“You look at it in an old-fashioned sort of way—a person has to earn it—it’s a sign of something he’s done. It came to me just now, all in a flash—we don’t feel that way about money. We haven’t any of us earned ours; we’ve just got it. And it never occurs to us to expect other people to earn it—all we want to know is if they have it.”
Montague did not tell his companion how very profound a remark he considered that; he was afraid it would not be delicate to agree with her. He had heard a story of a negro occupant of the “mourners’ bench,” who was voluble in confession of his sins, but took exception to the fervour with which the congregation said “Amen!”
“The Evanses used to be a lot funnier than they are now,” continued Mrs. Winnie, after a while. “When they came here last year, they were really frightful. They had an English chap for social secretary—a younger son of some broken-down old family. My brother knew a man who had been one of their intimates in the West, and he said it was perfectly excruciating—this fellow used to sit at the table and give orders to the whole crowd: ‘Your ice-cream fork should be at your right hand, Miss Mary.—One never asks for more soup, Master Robert.—And Miss Anna, always move your soup-spoon from you—that’s better!’”
“I fancy I shall feel sorry for them,” said Montague.
“Oh, you needn’t,” said the other, promptly. “They’ll get what they want.”
“Do you think so?”
“Why, certainly they will. They’ve got the money; and they’ve been abroad—they’re learning the game. And they’ll keep at it until they succeed—what else is there for them to do? And then my husband says that old Evans is making himself a power here in the East; so that pretty soon they won’t dare offend him.”
“Does that count?” asked the man.
“Well, I guess it counts!” laughed Mrs. Winnie. “It has of late.” And she went on to tell him of the Society leader who had dared to offend the daughters of a great magnate, and how the magnate had retaliated by turning the woman’s husband out of his high office. That was often the way in the business world; the struggles were supposed to be affairs of men, but oftener than not the moving power was a woman’s intrigue. You would see a great upheaval in Wall Street, and it would be two of the big men quarrelling over a mistress; you would see some man rush suddenly into a high office—and that would be because his wife had sold herself to advance him.
Mrs. Winnie took him up town in her auto, and he dressed for dinner; and then came Oliver, and his brother asked, “Are you trying to put the Evanses into Society?”
“Who’s been telling you about them?” asked the other.
“Mrs. Winnie,” said Montague.
“What did she tell you?”
Montague went over her recital, which his brother apparently found satisfactory. “It’s not as serious as that,” he said, answering the earlier question. “I help them a little now and then.”
“What do you do?”
“Oh, advise them, mostly—tell them where to go and what to wear. When they first came to New York, they were dressed like paraquets, you know. And”—here Oliver broke into a laugh—“I refrain from making jokes about them. And when I hear other people abusing them, I point out that they are sure to land in the end, and will be dangerous enemies. I’ve got one or two wedges started for them.”
“And do they pay you for doing it?”
“You’d call it paying me, I suppose,” replied the other. “The old man carries a few shares of stock for me now and then.”
“Carries a few shares?” echoed Montague, and Oliver explained the procedure. This was one of the customs which had grown up in a community where people did not have to earn their money. The recipient of the favour put up nothing and took no risks; but the other person was supposed to buy some stock for him, and then, when the stock went up, he would send a cheque for the “profits.” Many a man who would have resented a direct offer of money, would assent pleasantly when a powerful friend offered to “carry a hundred shares for him.” This was the way one offered a tip in the big world; it was useful in the case of newspaper men, whose good opinion of a stock was desired, or of politicians and legislators, whose votes might help its fortunes. When one expected to get into Society, one must be prepared to strew such tips about him.