Selma's facility in the New York manner was practised on Silas Parsons with flattering success. He was captivated by her--more so than by Flossy, who amused him as a flibbertigibbet, but who seemed to him to lack the serious cast of character which he felt that he discerned beneath the sprightliness of this new charmer. Mr. Parsons was what he called a "stickler" for the dignity of a serious demeanor. He liked to laugh at the theatre, but mistrusted a daily point of view which savored of buffoonery. He was fond of saying that more than one public man in the United States had come to grief politically from being a joker, and that the American people could not endure flippancy in their representatives. He liked to tell and listen to humorous stories in the security of a smoking-room, but in his opinion it behooved a citizen to maintain a dignified bearing before the world. Like other self-made men who had come to New York--like Selma herself--he had shrunk from and deplored at first the lighter tone of casual speech. Still he had grown used to it, and had even come to depend on it as an amus.e.m.e.nt. But he felt that in the case of Selma there was a basis of ethical earnestness, appropriate to woman, beneath her chatty flow of small talk. That she was comparatively a new-comer accounted partially for this impression, but it was mainly due to the fact that she still reverted after her sallies of pleasantry to a grave method of deportment.

Selma's chief hospitality toward the Parsonses took the form of a theatre party, which included a supper at Delmonico's after the play. It was an expensive kind of entertainment, which she felt obliged to justify to Wilbur by the a.s.sertion that the Williamses had been so civil she considered it would be only decent to show attention to their friends. She was unwilling to disclose her secret, lest the knowledge of it might make Wilbur offish and so embarra.s.s her efforts. There were eight in the party, and the affair seemed to Selma to go off admirably.

She was enthralled by the idea of using her own personal magnetism to promote her husband's business. She felt that it was just the sort of thing she would like and was fitted for, and that here was an opportunity for her individuality to display itself. She devoted herself with engaging a.s.siduity to Mr. Parsons, pleased during the active process of propitiation by the sub-consciousness that her table was one of the centres of interest in the large restaurant. She had dressed herself with formal care, and nothing in the way of compliment could have gratified her more than the remark which Mr. Parsons made, as he regarded her appreciatively, when he had finished his supper, that she suggested his idea of Columbia. Selma glowed with satisfaction. The comparison struck her as apt and appropriate, and she replied with a proud erection of her head, which imparted to her features their transcendental look, and caused her short curl to joggle tremulously, "I suppose I see what you mean, Mr. Parsons."

CHAPTER VII.

One evening, four or five days after this supper party, Wilbur laid down the book which he was pretending to read, and said, "Selma, I have come to the conclusion that I must give up dabbling in stocks. I am being injured by it--not financially, for, as you know, I have made a few thousand dollars--but morally."

"I thought you were convinced that it was not immoral," answered Selma, in a constrained voice.

"I do not refer to whether speculation is justifiable in itself, but to its effect on me as an individual--its distraction to my mind and consequent interference with my professional work."

"Oh."

"For a year now, the greater portion of the time, I have had some interest in the market, and as a consequence, have felt impelled to look in on Williams and VanHorne every day--sometimes oftener. I am unable to dismiss my speculations from my thoughts. I find myself wondering what has happened to the stocks I am carrying, and I am satisfied that the practice is thoroughly demoralizing to my self-respect and to my progress. I am going to give it up."

"I suppose you must give it up if it affects you like that," responded Selma drily. "I don't see exactly why it should."

"It may seem foolish to you, but I am unable to put my ventures out of my mind. The consequences of loss would be so serious to me that I suppose my imagination becomes unduly active and apprehensive. Also, I find myself eager to secure large gains. I must renounce Aladdin's lamp from this day forth, my dear, and trust to my legitimate business for my income."

Selma folded her hands and looked grave. "It's disappointing that you feel so just when we are beginning to get on, Wilbur."

"I have realized, Selma, that you have enjoyed and--er--been made happier by the freedom to spend which this extra money has afforded you.

But I know, when you reflect, you will understand that I am right, and that it would be disastrous to both of us if I were to continue to do what I believe demoralizing. It is a mortification to me to ask you to retrench, but I said to myself that Selma would be the first to insist on our doing so if she knew my feelings, and it makes me happy to be sure of your approval."

Littleton spoke with a tender plaintiveness which betrayed that in his secret soul he was less confident on this score than his words declared, or than he himself supposed. "Of course," he added, earnestly, "I shall hope that it will not make much difference. My business is slowly, but steadily, improving, and I am doing more this year than last. I am bending all my energies on my plans for Wetmore College. If I win in that compet.i.tion, I shall make a reputation and a respectable commission."

"You have been on those plans three months."

"Yes, and shall not finish them for another two. I wish to do my best work, and I shall be glad not to hear quotations of the ticker in my brain. You desire me to be thorough, surely, Selma _mia_?"

"Oh, yes. Only, you know people very often spoil things by pottering over them."

"I never potter. I reject because I am dissatisfied rather than offer a design which does not please me, but I do not waste my time."

"Call it over-conscientiousness then. I wish you to do your best work, of course, but one can't expect to do best work invariably. Everything was going so nicely that you must perceive it will be inconvenient to have to economize as we did before."

Littleton looked at his wife with a glance of loving distress. "You wouldn't really care a b.u.t.ton. I know you wouldn't, Selma," he said, stoutly.

"Of course not, if it were necessary," she answered. "Only I don't wish to do so unless it is necessary. I am not controverting your decision about the stocks, though I think your imagination, as you say, is to blame. I would rather cut my right hand off than persuade you to act contrary to your conscience. But it _is_ inconvenient, Wilbur, you must admit, to give up the things we have become accustomed to."

"We shall be able to keep the horse. I am certain of that."

"I wish you to see my side of it. Say that you do," she said, with shrill intensity.

"It is because I do see it that I am troubled, Selma. For myself I am no happier now than I was when we lived more simply. I can't believe that you will really find it a hardship to deny yourself such extravagances as our theatre party last week. Being a man," he added, after a pause, "I suppose I may not appreciate how important and seductive some of these social observances appear to a woman, and heaven knows my chief wish in life is to do everything in my power to make you happy. You must be aware of that, dearest. I delight to work hard for your sake. But it seems almost ludicrous to be talking of social interests to you, of all women. Why, at the time we were married, I feared that you would cut yourself off from reasonable pleasures on account of your dislike of everything frivolous. I remember I encouraged you not to take too ascetic a view of such things. So I am bound to believe that your side is my side--that we both will find true happiness in not attempting to compete with people whose tastes are not our tastes, and whose aims are not our aims."

"Then you think I have deteriorated," she said, with a superior smile.

"I think of you as the most conscientious woman I ever met. It was only natural that you should be spurred by our neighbors, the Williamses, to make a better showing socially before the world. I have been glad to see you emulous up to a certain point. You must realize though, that we cannot keep pace with them, even if we so desire. Already they are in the public eye. He appears to have made considerable money, and his views on the stock-market are given prominence by the press. He and his wife are beginning to be recognized by people who were ignorant of their existence four years ago. You told me last week that Mrs. Williams had attended one of the fashionable b.a.l.l.s, and I saw in yesterday's newspaper a description of her toilette at another. It begins to look as if, in a few years more, their ambition might be realized, and the doors of the Morton Price mansion open wide to admit this clever country cousin to the earthly paradise. It must be evident to you, Selma, that very shortly we shall see only the dust of their chariot-wheels in the dim social distance. Williams told me to-day that he has bought a house near the park."

"He has bought a new house? They are going to move?" exclaimed Selma, sitting up straight, and with a fierce light in her eyes.

"Yes. He was going home to tell his wife. It seems that they have been talking vaguely of moving for some time. An acquaintance happened to offer him a house, and Williams closed the bargain on the spot in his customary chain-lightning style. I shall be sorry to have them go on some accounts, for they have always been friendly, and you seem fond of the wife, but we shall find it easier, perhaps, when they are gone, to live according to our own ideas."

"Flossy has not been quite so nice lately," said Selma; "I am afraid she is disposed to put on airs."

"Her head may have been turned by her success. She has a kind heart, but a giddy brain in spite of its cleverness."

"Flossy has been getting on, of course. But so are we getting on. Why should they be recognized, as you call it, any more than we? In time, I mean. Not in the same way, perhaps, since you don't approve of the sort of things--"

"Since I don't approve? Why, Selma, surely--"

"Since _we_ don't approve, then. I only mean that Gregory Williams has shown initiative, has pushed ahead, and is--er--the talk of the town. I expect you to be successful, too. Is there any reason on earth why the door of the Morton Prices should open wide to her and not to me?"

"I suppose not, if--if you wish it."

She made a gesture of impatience and gazed at him a moment with an imperious frown, then suddenly, with the litheness of a cat, she slipped from her chair to the floor at his feet, and leaning against his knee, looked up into his face.

"You dear boy, I am going to tell you something. You said to me once that if ever the time came when I thought you visionary, I was to let you know. Of course I understand you are worth a thousand _Gregorys_; but don't you think you would get on faster if you were a little more aggressive in your work?--if you weren't so afraid of being superficial or sensational? You were intimating a few minutes ago," she added, speaking rapidly under the stress of the message she burned to deliver, "that I seemed changed. I don't believe I am changed. But, if I seem different, it is because I feel so strongly that those who wish to succeed must a.s.sert themselves and seize opportunities. There is where it seems to me that Mr. Williams has the advantage over you, Wilbur. One of the finest and most significant qualities of our people, you know, is their enterprise and aggressiveness. Architecture isn't like the stock business, but the same theory of progress must be applicable to both.

Don't you think I may be right, Wilbur? Don't you see what I mean?"

He stroked her hair and answered gently, "What is it that I am not doing which you think I might do?"

Selma snuggled close to him, and put her hand in his. She was vibrating with the proud consciousness of the duty vouchsafed to her to guide and a.s.sist the man she loved. It was a blissful and a precious moment to her. "If I were you," she said, solemnly, "I should build something striking and original, something which would make everyone who beheld it ask, 'what is the architect's name?' I would strike out boldly without caring too much what the critics and the people of Europe would say. You musn't be too afraid, Wilbur, of producing something American, and you mustn't be too afraid of the American ways of doing things. We work more quickly here in everything, and--and I still can't help feeling that you potter a little. Necessarily I don't know about the details of your business, but if I were you, instead of designing small buildings or competing for colleges and churches, where more than half the time someone else gets the award, I should make friends with the people who live in those fine houses on Fifth Avenue, and get an order to design a splendid residence for one of them. If you were to make a grand success of that, as you surely would, your reputation would be made. You ask me why I like to entertain and am willing to know people like that. It is to help you to get clients and to come to the front professionally. Now isn't that sensible and practical and right, too?"

Her voice rang triumphantly with the righteousness of her plea.

"Selma, dear, if I am not worldly-wise enough, I am glad to listen to your suggestions. But art is not to be hurried. I cannot vulgarize my art. I could not consent to that."

"Of course not, Wilbur. Not worldly-wise enough is just the phrase, I think. You are so absorbed in the theory of fine things that I am sure you often let the practical opportunities to get the fine things to do slip."

"Perhaps, dear. I will try to guard against it." Wilbur took her hands in his and looked down tenderly into her face. His own was a little weary. "Above everything else in life I wish, to make you happy," he said.

"I am happy, you dear boy."

"Truly?"

"Yes, truly. And if something happens which I am nearly sure will happen, I shall be happier still. It's a secret, and I mustn't tell you, but if it does happen, you can't help agreeing that your wife has been clever and has helped you in your profession."

"Helped me? Ah, Selma," he said, folding her in his arms, "I don't think you realize how much you are to me. In this modern world, what with self-consciousness, and shyness and contemporary distaste for fulsome expression, it is difficult to tell adequately those we love how we feel toward them. You are my darling and my inspiration. The sun rises and sets with you, and unless you were happy, I could never be. Each man in this puzzling world must live according to his own lights, and I, according to mine, am trying to make the most of myself, consistent with self-respect and avoidance of the low human aims and time-serving methods upon which our new civilization is supposed to frown. If I am neglecting my lawful opportunities, if I am failing to see wisely and correctly, I shall be grateful for counsel. Ah, Selma, for your sake, even more than for my own, I grieve that we have no children. A baby's hands would, I fancy, be the best of counsellors and enlighteners."

"If children had come at first, it would have been very nice. But now--now I think they might stand in the way of my being of help to you.

And I am so anxious to help you, Wilbur."