Eleanor M. Ingram
A Man's Hearth
Published by Good Press, 2019
EAN 4057664563552
Table of Contents
CHAPTER I Tony Adriance—"Millions, You Know!"
CHAPTER II His Neighbor's Wife
CHAPTER IV The Woman Who Grasped
CHAPTER V. The Little Red House
CHAPTER VII The Daring Adventure
CHAPTER VIII Andy of the Motor-Trucks.
CHAPTER IX The Luck in the House.
CHAPTER X Mrs. Masterson Takes Tea
CHAPTER XIV The Cabaret Dancer
CHAPTER XV The Other Man's Road
CHAPTER XVI The Guitar of Alenya of the Sea
CHAPTER XVII Russian Mike and Maître Raoul Galvez
ILLUSTRATIONS
| PAGE | |
| Elsie felt the Glance pass across Her and Rest on Anthony | Frontispiece |
| There Would Have Been no more Bedtime Romps for Masterson and His Son | 71 |
| The Winter was Hard and Long, but Never Dull to Them | 173 |
A MAN'S HEARTH
CHAPTER I
Tony Adriance—"Millions, You Know!"
The man who had taken shelter in the stone pavilion hesitated before taking a place on the curved bench before him. He had the air of awaiting some sign of welcome or dismissal from the seat's occupant; receiving none, he sat down and turned his gaze toward the broad Drive, where people were scattering before the sudden flurry of rain. It suggested spring rather than autumn, this shower that had swept out of a wind-blown cloud and was already passing.
After a moment he drew a cigar-case from his pocket, then paused. Obviously, he was not familiar with the etiquette of the public parks, with their freedom and lack of formalities. He was beside a woman—a girl. He had no wish to be inconsiderate, yet, to speak—in suspicious, sardonic New York—that was to invite misconstruction, or a flirtation. Still——
"May I smoke?" he suddenly and brusquely shot his question.
The girl turned towards him. Her eyes were as gray as the rain; heavily shadowed by their lashes, their expression had a misted aloofness suggesting thoughts hastily recalled from remote distances. He realized that he might have come, smoked, and gone without drawing her notice any more than a blowing leaf. She was not a beauty, but he liked the clearing frankness of the glance with which she judged him, and judged aright. He liked it, too, that she did not smile, and that her steadfast regard showed neither invitation nor hostility.
"Thank you," she answered. "Please do."
The form of her reply seemed to him peculiarly gracious and unexpected, as if she gave with both hands instead of doling out the merely necessary. He never had known a woman who gave; they always took, in his experience. Unconsciously he lifted his hat in acknowledgment of the tone rather than the permission. That was all, of course. She returned to her study of river and sky, while he drew out his cigar. But afterward he looked at her, unobtrusively.
She was dressed altogether in black, but not the black of mourning, he judged. The costume, plain but not shabby, conventional without being up-to-date, touched him with a vague sense of familiarity, yet escaped recognition. It should have told him something of her, but it did not, except that she had not much money for frocks. He was only slightly interested; he might not have glanced her way again if he had not been struck by her rapt absorption in the sunset panorama before them. She had gone back to that place of thought from which his speech had called her; withdrawn from all around her as one who goes into a secret room and closes a door against the world. And she looked happy, or at least serenely at peace with her dreams. The man sighed with envious impatience, striving to follow her gaze and share the enchantment.
The enchantment was not for him. The brief storm had left tumbled masses of purple cloud hanging in the deep-rose tinted sky, in airy mockery and