FullReads

“Well, that may be interesting for this summer. When you return to Paris—”

“I’m not going back to Paris. I can’t paint. I’m going to sell real estate. ”

The sound that T. Jefferson now made was rather like a carload of steers arriving at the Chicago stockyards. In this restricted space it is possible to give only a hundredth of his observations on Life and Culture, but among many other things he said:

“I might have known! I might have known it! I’ve always suspected that you were your mother’s boy as much as mine. How sharper than a serpent’s tooth! Serpent in a fella’s own bosom!

“Here I’ve given up my life to manufacturing Puffy Wuffles, when all the time my longing was to be artistic, and now when I give you the chance—Serpent’s tooth! The old bard said it perfectly! Whit, my boy, I hope it isn’t that you feel I can’t afford it! In just a few days now, I’m going to start my schemes for extending the plant; going to get options on the five acres to the eastward. The production of Ritzy Rice will be doubled in the next year. And so, my boy … You’ll either stick to your art or I’ll disown you, sir! I mean, cut you off with a shilling! Yes, sir, a shilling! I’ll by thunder make you artistic, if it’s the last thing I do!”

On the same afternoon when he had, and very properly, been thrown out into the snowstorm with a shawl over his head, Whit borrowed five thousand from Stuyv Wescott’s father, with it obtained options on the five acres upon which his father planned to build, with them reported to Mr. Seidel, from that low realtor received the five thousand dollars to repay Mr. Wescott, plus a five-thousand-dollar commission for himself and spent twenty-five dollars in flowers, and with them appeared at the house of Betty Clark at six-fifteen.

Betty came down, so lovely, so cool, so refreshing in skirts that clipped her ankles; and so coolly and refreshingly she said: “Hey, Whit, my dear! What can I do for you?”

“I don’t think you can do anything besides help me spend the five thousand and twenty-five dollars I’ve made today. I spent the twenty-five for these flowers. They’re very nice, aren’t they?”

“They certainly are. ”

“But do you think they’re worth twenty-five dollars?”

“Sure they are. Listen, darling! I’m so sorry that you wasted your time making five thousand dollars when you might have been painting. But of course an artist has to be an adventurer. I’m glad that you’ve tried it and that it’s all over. We’ll go back to Paris as soon as we’re married, and have a jolly li’l’ Bohemian flat there, and I’ll try so hard to make all of your artistic friends welcome. ”

“Betty! Is your brother still here?”

“How should I know?”

“Would you mind finding out?”

“Why no? But why?”

“Dear Betty, you will understand what a scoundrel I am in a few minutes. Funny! I never meant to be a scoundrel. I never even meant to be a bad son…. Will you yell for Timmy, please?”

“Of course I will. ” She yelled, very competently.

Tim came downstairs, beaming. “I hope it’s all over. ”

“That’s the point,” said Whit. “I am trying to persuade T. Jefferson that I don’t want to be an artist. I’m trying—Lord knows what I’m trying!” With which childish statement Whit fled from the house.

He found a taxi and gave the driver the address of his boss, Mr. Seidel, at the Zenith Athletic Club.

In his room, sitting on the edge of his bed, Mr. Seidel was eating dinner. “Hello, boy, what’s the trouble?” he said.