``Of course, he THINKS so,'' said Hastings.``They all do.But you don't suppose a man of any sense at all could really care about and respect working class people?--ignorant, ungrateful fools._I_ know 'em.Didn't I come from among 'em? Ain't Idealt with 'em all my life? No, that there guy Dorn's simply trying to get up, and is using them to step up on.I did the same thing, only I did it in a decent, law-abiding way.I didn't want to tear down those that was up.I wanted to go up and join 'em.And I did.''
And his eyes glistened fondly and proudly as he gazed at his daughter.She represented the climax of his rising--she, the lady born and bred, in her beautiful clothes, with her lovely, delicate charms.Yes, he had indeed ``come up,'' and there before him was the superb tangible evidence of it.
Jane had the strongest belief in her father's worldly wisdom.At the same time, from what David Hull said she had got an impression of a something different from the ordinary human being in this queer Victor Dorn.``You'd better move slowly,'' she said to her father.``There's no hurry, and you might be mistaken in him.''
``Plenty of time,'' asserted her father.``There's never any need to hurry about giving up money.'' Then, with one of those uncanny flashes of intuition for which he, who was never caught napping, was famous, he said to her sharply: ``You keep your hands off, miss.''
She was thrown into confusion--and her embarrassment enraged her against herself.``What could _I_ do?'' she retorted with a brave attempt at indifference.
``Well--keep your hands off, miss,'' said the old man.``No female meddling in business.I'll stand for most anything, but not for that.''
Jane was now all eagerness for dropping the subject.She wished no further prying of that shrewd mind into her secret thoughts.
``It's hardly likely I'd meddle where I know nothing about the circumstances,'' said she.``Will you drive me down to Martha's?''
This request was made solely to change the subject, to shift her father to his favorite topic for family conversation--his daughter Martha, Mrs.Hugo Galland, her weakness for fashionable pastimes, her incessant hints and naggings at her father about his dowdy dress, his vulgar mannerisms of speech and of conduct, especially at table.Jane had not the remotest intention of letting her father drive her to Mrs.Galland's, or anywhere, in the melancholy old phaeton-buggy, behind the fat old nag whose coat was as shabby as the coat of the master or as the top and the side curtains of the sorrowful vehicle it drew along at caterpillar pace.
When her father was ready to depart for his office in the Hastings Block--the most imposing office building in Remsen City, Jane announced a change of mind.
``I'll ride, instead,'' said she.``I need the exercise, and the day isn't too warm.''
``All right,'' said Martin Hastings grumpily.He soon got enough of anyone's company, even of his favorite daughter's.Through years of habit he liked to jog about alone, revolving in his mind his business affairs--counting in fancy his big bundles of securities, one by one, calculating their returns past, present and prospective--reviewing the various enterprises in which he was dominant factor, working out schemes for getting more profit here, for paying less wages there, for tightening his grip upon this enterprise, for dumping his associates in that, for escaping with all the valuable assets from another.His appearance, as he and his nag dozed along the highroad, was as deceptive as that of a hive of bees on a hot day--no signs of life except a few sleepy workers crawling languidly in and out at the low, broad crack-door, yet within myriads toiling like mad.
Jane went up to dress.She had brought an Italian maid with her from Florence, and a mass of baggage that had given the station loungers at Remsen City something to talk about, when there was a dearth of new subjects, for the rest of their lives.She had transformed her own suite in the second story of the big old house into an appearance of the quarters of a twentieth century woman of wealth and leisure.In the sitting room were books in four languages; on the walls were tasteful reproductions of her favorite old masters.The excellence of her education was attested not by the books and pictures but by the absence of those fussy, commonplace draperies and bits of bric-a-brac where-- with people of no taste and no imagination furnish their houses because they can think of nothing else to fill in the gaps.
Many of Jane's ways made Sister Martha uneasy.For Martha, while admitting that Jane through superior opportunity ought to know, could not believe that the ``right sort'' of people on the other side had thrown over all her beloved formalities and were conducting themselves distressingly like tenement-house people.
For instance, Martha could not approve Jane's habit of smoking cigarettes--a habit which, by one of those curious freaks of character, enormously pleased her father.But--except in one matter--Martha entirely approved Jane's style of dress.She hastened to pronounce it ``just too elegant'' and repeated that phrase until Jane, tried beyond endurance, warned her that the word elegant was not used seriously by people of the ``right sort'' and that its use was regarded as one of those small but subtle signs of the loathsome ``middle class.''
The one thing in Jane's dress that Martha disapproved-- or, rather, shied at--was her riding suit.This was an extremely noisy plaid man's suit--for Jane rode astride.Martha could not deny that Jane looked ``simply stunning'' when seated on her horse and dressed in that garb with her long slim feet and graceful calves encased in a pair of riding boots that looked as if they must have cost ``something fierce.'' But was it really ``ladylike''? Hadn't Jane made a mistake and adopted a costume worn only by the fashionables among the demi-mondaines of whom Martha had read and had heard such dreadful, delightful stories?
