# Peggy-in-the-Rain/Chapter 6

VI
T is a penalty of Prominence to be photographed. The Home Edition of the Evening Journal, which an attendant was placing on the tables in the club when Gordon dropped in at four o'clock, flaunted a four-column cut on the first page which purported to be a snap-shot of the young millionaire emerging from the offices of the Central and Western Railroad after a conference with the directors. Had the reproduction been a little clearer it might have been observed that a frown disturbed the usual placidity of the young gentleman's brow. As it was, however, one had to accept the enterprising photographer's word as to the identity of the subject, for the picture showed only a dim figure, attired in light clothes and a derby hat, striding from the marble entrance of a building, with a feather duster vender shuffling into range and a messenger-boy in the act of observing the principal figure over his shoulder and colliding ​with the vender. There was a half-column of speculation masquerading as knowledge in which Gordon was referred to variously as the Boy Magnate, the Young Railroad President, the Bachelor Millionaire, and Society's Darling. Gordon glanced through the article, mentally shrugged his shoulders and tossed the paper to the table again. Then he picked up a magazine, pushed a button and dropped into a leather chair. An attendant crossed the heavy crimson and blue rug with noiseless steps.
"When Mr. Waring comes in," Gordon instructed, "ask him to look for me here, please."
The magazine, which he had selected quite at random, opened itself at an article on "New York's Landed Proprietors." The first turn of a page revealed a half-tone reproduction of a photograph labelled "Gordon Patterson Ames—Photo Copyrighted by Neville." Gordon had set for the likeness four years before, and it represented him as an insufferably priggish young man of twenty-three with an incipient mustache, his hair plastered to his head and a gardenia as big as a cabbage rose in the buttonhole of a checked morning coat. He shuddered. Old photographs, like sins, ​continually find one out. With pardonable curiosity he turned back and began to read the article. "New York's Landed Proprietors—How the Old Knickerbocker families, together with a few More Recent Arrivals, have gained control of over a Billion Dollars worth of Manhattan Island—By Margaret Mill." There was little in the story that hadn't been told time and time before, but the facts were presented brightly and crisply, round numbers of seven, eight and nine figures were sprinkled through the text with breath-taking carelessness, and the accompanying illustrations showed bejeweled ladies and frock-coated men with lavish prodigality. It was a veritable Romance of Money. It started with the penniless butcher's son who, with the money accumulated in fur trading, purchased farm lands which now, in the fourth generation, were valued at almost a half-billion dollars. It told of the son of the Huguenot refugee who set up his ironmonger's shop and founded a fortune approximately represented to-day by nine figures. And so it went, tracing the development of one fortune after another so enticingly that Gordon, meaning only to skim the story, found himself reading it with ​interest. His own real estate holdings he found placed at fifty millions, while his mother's personal property was figured at twenty-five. Gordon smiled, but the smile faded the next moment. "The present head of the Ames family," he read, "is but twenty-seven years of age and of his ability to add to the fortune of which he became possessed on the death of his father little is known. So far he has been seemingly content to leave the conduct of his affairs in the hands of older and wiser men. He is an enthusiastic sportsman, with horses and yachts his main hobbies. In society, where he is a notable figure, he is immensely popular, although his democratic tastes have at times quite shocked his friends. Gordon Ames is still young, and it may be that when he is tired of playing he will buckle down and show that he is, after all, a true son of the hardy New Englander who, in the last century, carved his fortune from the granite hills. But even lack of ability will scarcely affect so much of his fortune as is represented by New York real estate, which, barring the most unimaginable influences, will continue to increase in value from year to year."
"Who the devil writes these things for the ​magazines?" he demanded as Peter Waring perched himself on the table.
Peter glanced uninterestedly at the article and shook his head. "Search me, old man. I don't. Wish I could. Never was able to string three words together and make sense. What's wrong with this one?"
Gordon hesitated. "Nothing," he answered finally, tossing the magazine aside. "Let's have a drink."
Peter glanced at the gold-rimmed clock over the library door. "Can't," he said, shaking his head. "I'm on the wagon till five. Beastly bore, but it's doctor's orders."
"Well, it'll be five by the time we get back there. Come on. What seems to be the trouble with you, Pete?"
"Doctor says liver. I don't know. I get up feeling like the very devil; don't eat; sleep rotten; grouchy all the time."
"You're in love, Pete."
Peter shook his head quite soberly. "No, that ain't it. I guess it's pickled liver, just like the doctor says. What do you want?"
​"Who's giving this party? Waiter, bring Mr. Waring a liver pill and a glass of water."
The waiter smiled discreetly.
"Rye high-ball,"said Peter. "I believe it's these damned mixed drinks that have got me going, Gordon. Saw your pretty in the paper this afternoon."
"Make it two. Yes, good likeness, wasn't it?"
"Well, I'd have known those long legs of yours. Ran into the Widow a minute ago on the Avenue."
"Ran into her? Well, you're insured, aren't you, up to twenty thousand? How much is a widow worth, Pete, if you break her?"
"She inquired about you."
"That means she's losing hope of you, Pete. Hope you told her I'd gone abroad or somewhere?"
"I don't believe she'd have me," replied Pete moodily.
"Good God, old man, you aren't thinking of that, are you?"
"Oh, I don't know. Say, look here, now; I'm 'most thirty, ain't I?"
"You ought to know better than I."
​"Well, I am. Now, why not get married, eh?"
"Really and truly, you mean?"
"Shut up! Yes. I'm getting sort of sick of just hanging around, old man. What I want is a place to go home to."
"Foreclosed the mortgage, have they?"
"Hell, that ain't a home! I mean a—a place of my own, don't you see. A little house with a wife and a cat on the hearth——"
"Trouble is, Pete, it's hard nowadays to get a wife who will stay on the hearth. They all want to be treated like one of the family!"
"Quit kiddin'; I'm in earnest. Here's regards. Now, look; why not marry a nice girl and settle down?"
"Found her yet?"
"N-no. I could, though. I've got money enough to marry on——"
Gordon put his head back and laughed. "Good old Peter! He's got money enough to marry on! Pete, did you know that there are men in this old town who marry on twelve dollars a week?"
"Are there?" asked Peter vaguely. "Well, but look at the girls they marry! Make their own hats and do their own cooking, don't they? By ​Jove, I'd like to find a girl who'd do that for me?"
"Think of your poor liver," said Gordon feelingly. "Look here, you poor old idiot, what you want is a housekeeper, not a wife. You can hire them."
"Oh, I'm through with that sort of thing," responded Pete virtuously.
"I wish you wouldn't misconstrue my suggestions. I was referring to a bona-fide housekeeper; a perfect lady. You advertise for them in the papers. They are usually widows, I believe, and dress in black merino, whatever that is, and live in the past. If you paid a big enough salary I'll bet you could get one to sit on the hearth with the cat."
"You're a damned fool," said Peter with a grin. "I come to you for sympathy and all I get is a lot of silly jokes. Let's have another drink."
"No more, thanks. What are you doing this evening?"
"Dinner; Sinclair's. Going?"
"I believe I am. I'd forgotten it. Let's get away and go to a show afterwards."
"I'm your boy," said Peter more cheerfully. ​"Seen 'The Girl with the Diamond Heels'? They say it's ripping."
"All right. I'll get some tickets. Are you crazy about boxes?"
"Hate 'em. Feel like a silly ass sitting in a box. First row for me."
"Punch the bell, will you? I'm sorry if I haven't been sufficiently sympathetic, Pete. The fact is, your plan rather took my wind. I—I've been contemplating matrimony myself."
"You? Good Lord!"
"Well, why not, you silly fool? Think you're the only man in New York who can get married?"
"But—but you're not the marrying kind, Gordon?"
"Why not?"
"Because—oh, I don't know."
"Of course you don't know, you chump!" replied Gordon, signing his check. "Cigarette? There isn't such a thing as a non-marrying kind of a man, Pete. I'm just as much of a marrying man as you are, confound you. And I've a darned good mind to try it."
"Who's the lady?"
"I don't know—yet."
​"Hm."
"Same to you. Come on and let's get those tickets. Anyhow, it's time."
"Yes, they're sold out weeks ahead."
"I mean it's time for me to get married. Pete, that picture of a wife and a cat on the hearth looks awfully good to me, too!"