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He would have infinitely preferred that the girl should wait his coming to her, on the piazza; but already she had slung her bag of sticks over her strong shoulder, and was down the steps to meet him. Her leave-taking of the incensed Van Slyke had been the merest nod. "You're late, Wally," said she, smiling with her usual good humor, which had already quite dissipated her impatience.
And the words he used were the words of an educated man. Far better vocabulary than Waldron's, for example; and as for poor little Van Slyke, and that set, why this man's mind seems to have towered above them as the Palisades tower above the river! "Happy? Rich? He said he was both and all he had was eighteen dollars and his two big hands! Just fancy that, will you?
Tony drew away from her companion to study his face, with amazement on her own. "To find Carson and look after him. Why else?" "But your exhibition? You can't go away now, Alan, even if I would let you go to Dick that way." "Oh, yes I can. The arrangements are all made. Van Slyke can handle the last stages of the thing far better than I can.
Do you know them?" Willow shook her head, no. "He's a painter, and she's a looker. He showed me his studio. Do you know what art is, Willow?" "God, Patrick," she said. "What's the matter?" "You ask the most amazing questions." "Well, I asked Hendrik Mr. Van Slyke and he showed me his studio." "Modest Hendrik." "He was modest, in a frustrated way.
Not a bad painting, as it turned out." Patrick saw what Hendrik meant through a light haze of embarrassment. He took a drink from his bottle of Heineken and acted grown up. Mrs. Van Slyke was leaning forward. She had unexpectedly exotic breasts that hung and then swelled upwards. "The thing is, it can take a while before you get it. Sometimes you never get it.
Wilson bounced like a monkey, scratching under both armpits. "Or, or. Grick. Grick." "This is what happens when he gets to bed early," Parker said to Patrick. Mrs. Van Slyke returned. "Parker?" He rose to his feet balancing his coffee, assumed a good humored expression, and approached Mrs. Van Slyke. "Her husband's a bad dude," Wilson said. "Nothing you couldn't handle." His live eye gleamed.
Do you wish you were?" Stunned by this "facer," Reginald Van Slyke gasped and stared. That he, a scion of the Philadelphia Van Slykes, in his own right worth two hundred million dollars dollars ground out of the Kensington carpet-mill slaves by his grandfather should be thus flouted and put upon by the daughter of Flint, that parvenu, absolutely floored him.
There, far down the drive, just rounding the long turn by the artificial lake, a big blue motor car was speeding up the grade at a good clip. Van Slyke recognized it, and swore below his breath. "Wally, at last, damn him!" he muttered. "Just when I was beginning to make headway with Kate!" Vexed beyond endurance, he drummed on the cloth with angry fingers; but Catherine was oblivious.
Parker was grinning on the sideline. "Umm it's over there," Patrick said, waving at the studio. "Of course it is," Mrs. Van Slyke said without changing expression. "What wonderful crews you have, Parker! The place looks marvelous. I hope you will be able to do the studio next year." "It will be first on on my list," Parker promised. "Come, Patrick, let's get the ladder on the rack."
For though Catherine never had truly loved this man, some years older than herself and of radically different character, still she liked and respected him, and found him by his very force and dominance far more to her taste than the insipid hangers-on, sons of fortune or fortune-hunters, who, like the sap-brained Van Slyke, made up so great a part of her "set."
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