Her father came puffing and lip-pursing and jolly, to take her to
dinner. Mr. Boltwood had no tearing meditations; he had a healthy
interest in soup. But he glanced at her, across the bright, sleek
dining-table; he seemed to study her; and suddenly Claire saw that he
was a very wise man. His look hinted, "You're worried, my dear," but his
voice ventured nothing beyond comfortable drawling stories to which she
had only, from the depth of her gloomy brooding, to nod mechanically.
She got a great deal of satisfaction and horror out of watching two
traveling-men after dinner. Milt had praised the race, and one of the
two traveling-men, a slender, clear-faced youngster, was rather like
Milt, despite plastered hair, a watch-chain slung diagonally across his
waistcoat, maroon silk socks, and shoes of pearl buttons, gray tops, and
patent-leather bottoms. The other man was a butter-ball. Both of them
had harshly pompous voices--the proudly unlettered voices of the smoking
compartment. The slender man was roaring: "Yes, sir, he's got a great proposition there--believe me, he's got a
great proposition--he's got one great little factory there, take it from
me. He can turn out toothpicks to compete with Michigan. He's simply
piling up the shekels--why say, he's got a house with eighteen
rooms--every room done different."
Claire wondered whether Milt, when the sting and faith of romance were
blunted, would engage in Great Propositions, and fight for the
recognition of his--toothpicks. Would his creations be favorites in the
best lunch rooms? Would he pile up shekels?
Then her fretting was lost in the excitement of approaching Seattle and
their host--Claire's cousin, Eugene Gilson, an outrageously prosperous
owner of shingle-mills. He came from an old Brooklyn Heights family. He
had married Eva Gontz of Englewood. He liked music and wrote jokey
little letters and knew the addresses of all the best New York shops. He
was of Her Own People, and she was near now to the security of his
friendship, the long journey done.
Lights thicker and thicker--a factory illuminated by arc-lamps,--the
baggage--the porter--the eager trail of people in the aisle--climbing
down to the platform--red caps--passing the puffing engine which had
brought them in--the procession to the gate--faces behind a
grill--Eugene Gilson and Eva waving--kisses, cries of "How was the
trip?" and "Oh! Had won-derful drive!"--the huge station, and curious
waiting passengers, Jap coolies in a gang, lumbermen in corks--the
Gilsons' quiet car, and baggage stowed away by the chauffeur instead of
by their own tired hands--streets strangely silent after the tumult of
the train--Seattle and the sunset coast at last attained.
Claire had forgotten how many charming, most desirable things there were
in the world. The Gilsons drove up Queen Anne Hill to a bay-fronting
house on a breezy knob--a Georgian house of holly hedge, French windows,
a terrace that suggested tea, and a great hall of mahogany and white
enamel with the hint of roses somewhere, and a fire kindled in the
paneled drawing-room to be seen beyond the hall. Warmth and softness and
the Gilsons' confident affection wrapped her around; and in contented
weariness she mounted to a bedroom of Bakst sketches, a four-poster, and
a bedside table with a black and orange electric lamp and a collection
of Arthur Symons' essays.