At least he was a
gentleman; but who could he be?
"Dwight," she murmured. "I do not know the name. Were you born here?"
"I was born in Utica, New York. My parents came here when I was quite
young. We--always lived rather quietly."
"But you go about now? To all these parties?"
"Oh, yes. I like to dance after the day's work. But I am not what you would
call a society man. I haven't the time."
Mrs. Groome was not usually blunt, but she suddenly scented danger and she
had not fully recovered her poise.
"You are in business?" She disliked business intensely. All gentlemen of
her day had followed one of the professions.
"I am in a wholesale commission house. But I hope to be in business for
myself one day."
"Ah."
Still, all young men in this terrible twentieth century could not be
lawyers. Mrs. Groome knew enough of the march of time to be aware of the
increasing difficulties in gaining a bare livelihood. Tom Abbott was a
lawyer, like his father before him, and his grandfather in the fifties. It
was one of the oldest firms in San Francisco, but she recalled his frequent
and bitter allusions to the necessity of sitting up nights these days if a
man wanted to keep out of the poorhouse.
And at least this young man did not look like an idler or a wastrel. No man
could have so clear a skin and be so well-groomed at six in the morning
if he drank or gambled.
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