"Do you suppose I'd come out with a duplicate? You should have thought of
it years ago. You always promised to take me to India."
"It should be on you!" He gazed at her adoringly. Her hair was dressed
in a high and stately fashion to-night. She wore a gown of gold brocade
and a necklace and little tiara of emeralds and diamonds; she was
looking very handsome and very regal. Thornton was a thin, dark, nervous
wisp of a man, who had borne his share of the burdens laid upon his city
in the cataclysm of 1906, but if his wife had demanded an enormous
historic ruby he would have done his best to gratify her. But how the
deuce could a man-Mrs. Gwynne was holding the stone in her hand and smiling into its
flaming depths without envy. She was one of those women of dazzling white
skin, black hair and blue eyes, who, when wise, never wear any jewels but
pearls. She wore the Gwynne pearls to-night and a shimmering white gown.
Ruyler glanced round the fine old room with the warm feeling of
satisfaction he always experienced at a San Francisco function, where the
women were almost as invariably pretty as they were gay and friendly. He
did not like the younger men he met on these occasions as well as he did
many of the older ones; the serious ones would not waste their time on
society, and there were too many of the sort who were asked everywhere
because they had made a cult of fashion, whether they could afford it or
not. A few were the sons of wealthy parents, and were more dissipated
than those obliged to "hold down" a job that provided them with money
enough above their bare living expenses to make them useful and
presentable.
Ruyler looked upon both sorts as cumberers of the earth, and only
tolerated them in his own house when his wife gave a party and dancing
men must be had at any price.
There was one man here to-night for whom he had always held particular
detestation. His name was Nicolas Doremus. He was a broker in a small
way, but Ruyler guessed that he made the best part of his income at
bridge, possibly poker. He lived with two other men in a handsome
apartment in one of the new buildings that were changing the old skyline
of San Francisco. His dancing teas and suppers were admirably appointed
and the most exclusive people went to them.
Ruyler knew his history in a general way. His father had made a fortune
in "Con. Virginia" in the Seventies, and his mother for a few years had
been the social equal of the women who now patronized her son. But
unfortunately the gambling microbe settled down in Harry Doremus' veins,
and shortly after his son was born he engaged his favorite room at the
Cliff House and blew out his brains. His wife was left with a large
house, which as a last act of grace he had forborne to mortgage and made
over to her by deed. She immediately advertised for boarders, and as her
cooking was excellent and she had the wit to drop out of society and give
her undivided attention to business, she prospered exceedingly.