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Updated: May 3, 2025
Overgold sauntered over from the cashier's desk, his open purse still in his hand, and joined them. There was a dreamy look upon his face. "I wonder," he murmured, "whether personality survives or whether it, too, when up against the irresistible, dissolves and resolves itself into a series of negative reactions?" De Vere's empty heart echoed the words.
"I think," he said modestly, "I grasp your thought. You mean to what extent are we prepared to endorse Hegel's dictum of immaterial evolution?" "Exactly," said Mr. Overgold. "How far, if at all, do we substantiate the Kantian hypothesis of the transcendental?" "Precisely," said de Vere eagerly. "Entirely so," continued Mr. Overgold.
"Do you want them," he said, "or shall I throw them away?" "Give them to me," said de Vere quietly; "they are not worth the throwing." "No, no," said Mr. Overgold, speaking half to himself, as he replaced the bonds in his desk. "It is a burden that I must carry alone. I have no right to ask any one to share it.
A thousand times he cursed his folly in not having asked her name. Meanwhile no word comes from her, till suddenly, mysteriously, unexpectedly, on the fourth day a note is handed to de Vere by the Third Assistant Head Waiter of the Belmont. It is addressed in a lady's hand. He tears it open. It contains only the written words, "Call on Mr. J. Superman Overgold. He is a multimillionaire.
Beside the steamer customs officers and deportation officials moved silently to and fro in long black cloaks, carrying little deportation lanterns in their hands. To these Mr. Overgold presented in silence his deportation certificates, granting his party permission to leave the United States under the imbecility clause of the Interstate Commerce Act. No objection was raised.
"And why, if at all, does Bergsonian illusionism differ from pure nothingness?" They both paused. Mr. Overgold had risen. There was great weariness in his manner. "It saddens one, does it not?" he said. He had picked up a bundle of Panama two per cent. gold bonds and was looking at them in contempt. "The emptiness of it all!" he muttered. He extended the bonds to de Vere.
Overgold would sit in the gallery and Dorothea downstairs; at times one of them would sit in Row A, another in Row B, and a third in Row C; at other times two would sit in Row B and one in Row C; at the opera, at times, one of the three would sit listening, the others talking, at other times two listening and one talking, and at other times three talking and none listening.
Thus the three formed together one of the most perplexing, maddening triangles that ever disturbed the society of the metropolis. The denouement was bound to come. It came. It was late at night. De Vere was standing beside Dorothea in the brilliantly lighted hall of the Grand Palaver Hotel, where they had had supper. Mr. Overgold was busy for a moment at the cashier's desk.
Not in France, certainly. "I fear that you are very young, amico mio," Dorothea went on carelessly. "After all, what is there wrong in it, piccolo pochito? To a man's mind perhaps but to a woman, love is love." She beckoned to the butler. "Take Mr. Overgold a cutlet to the music-room," she said, "and give him his gorgonzola on the inkstand in the library."
"Exactly, exactly," said de Vere, writing rapidly in his note-book as he sat in one of the deep leather armchairs of the luxurious office of Mr. Overgold. "So you sometimes feel as if the whole thing were not worth while." "I do," said Mr. Overgold. "I can't help asking myself what it all means.
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