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Updated: June 8, 2025
Graydon looked uncomfortably at Jane, whose face was set with distress. "Elias, you've got no right to " began the young man coldly. "I beg your pardon if I've offended," said Droom abjectly. "I I don't know the etiquette of small talk forgive me. I was interested, that is all." "It may interest you to know that I had a long talk with Mr. Clegg this afternoon.
Two minutes later Graydon Bansemer and Jane Cable, strangers until then, were asking each other how they liked the play, and Fate was at work. A few weeks after this scene at the theatre young Mr. Bansemer dashed across the hall from the elevator and entered his father's office just as Elias Droom was closing up. "Where's the governor, Mr.
Droom hesitated a moment, looking first at Eddie and then toward the window. Slowly he unbolted the door. A small A. D. T. boy stood beyond. "What is it?" almost gasped Elias Droom, drawing the boy into the room. "Mr. Droom? No answer, sir. Sign here." The boy, snow-covered, drew a letter from his pocket and handed it to Droom.
She's beautiful, accomplished and well, she's thoroughbred," said Bansemer steadily, turning to face the old man. "It is not necessary to remind you that she is a child of love," said Droom, "That's the genteel way to put it." "It's not like you to be genteel, Elias. Still," and he sat down and leaned forward eagerly, "she has good blood from both sides." "Yes the so-called best."
"I'm going past his house. I'll stop in and tell him. Let me out, officer; I must get out of these wet garments. I'm an old man, you know." The probable solution had come to Droom like a flash. As he hurried up the street his mind was full of the theory. He scarcely could wait for the door of David Cable's house to be opened in response to his vigorous ringing. The maid announced that Mr. and Mrs.
He hated James Bansemer from the bottom, of his wretched soul, but he could not but feel, at this moment, a touch of admiration. Through all the years of their association Elias Droom had hated Bansemer because he was qualified to be the master, because he was successful and forceful, because he had loved and been loved, because they had been classmates but not equals.
James Bansemer, haggard from loss of sleep and from fury over the alienation of his son, together with the fear of what the day might bring, was pacing the floor of his private office. Droom had eased his mind but little in regard to his son. When he heard Graydon's voice in the outer room, his face brightened and he took several quick steps toward the door.
Late one November afternoon just before Bansemer put on his light topcoat to leave the office for the day, Droom tapped on the glass panel of the door to his private office. Usually, the clerk communicated with him by signal a floor button by which he could acquaint his master with much that he ought to know, and the visitor in the outer office would be none the wiser.
Mingled with these cheap creations were excellent copies of famous Madonnas, quaint Scriptural drawings, engravings of the Saviour, and an allegorical coloured print which emphasised the joys of heaven. There was also a badly drawn but idealised portrait of Droom, done in crayon at the age of twenty. This portrait was one of his prized possessions.
Droom scrawled a few words of cheer to the young soldier, urging him not to re-enlist, but to come home, at the end of his two years. He enclosed a letter from Mr. Clegg, in which that gentleman promised to put Graydon in charge of their New York office, if he would take the place. This news sent his spirits bounding. Tears of a gratefulness he never expected to feel sprang to his eyes.
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