it’s a struggle. I don’t believe he’s ever invested in a limited partnership. It might be just what he needs.”
“By all means. Call him up. Want to use the phone now? I’ll leave the room.”
“No, no, Eddy. I’ll do it at home tonight. Come to think of it, I could get up a whole list of people, friends in Texas and people in my office too. You’d be helping them, and I guess they’d be helping you. That’s the way it works, isn’t it?”
“The way it works.” Eddy was pleased. “And I’ll appreciate the new business very much. It’s awfully generous of you to go to so much trouble.”
“What trouble? Anyway, people in families are supposed to do for each other, aren’t they? At least in Texas they are.”
“In Ohio too,” Eddy said cheerfully.
Richard stood up. “Well, it’s been a good day. I feel I’ve made a good start. Now I’m off for home.”
“And I’m off to the country. Spending the week at the club. I give myself a week’s vacation twice a year. I need it.”
“Great. Have fun. You deserve it.” The men shook hands, and Richard left.
“What a decent guy,” Eddy thought. “There’s something innocent about him. You wouldn’t think he came from Houston. You’d think he came from a two-horse town like mine.”
The club had quickly assumed the feel of home. When a young man, a not bad-looking young man, has a sense of humor, plays excellent tennis, is a good dancer, is friendly, and has some money, he can be at home anywhere, Eddy reflected as he lay alongside the pool.
On his left the golf course, a glaze of summer green, undulated toward some distant bushy hills. On his right below the terrace stood the line of umbrella tables, brightly orange. A lively chatter surrounded him.
“Gosh, it’s beautiful!” he exclaimed.
His friend and favorite tennis partner answered with a deprecation.
“You think this place is? I can show you a club that makes this look like a dump.”
“Not possible!”
“Oh, yes, it is. This place is vulgar, if you want to know. Nouveau riche, and it shows.”
Eddy set his cold beer aside and came to attention. “If it’s that bad, how come you’re a member?”
“Frankly, because they wouldn’t take me into Buttonwood. I’m nouveau riche.” Terry laughed. “And not all that ‘riche’ either.”
Now Eddy wanted to know more. “What are the differences between the two? Give me an example.”
“Oh, I don’t know. It’s the people, I guess, the way they look, who they are.”
“How do you know all this?”
“My sister married a member of Buttonwood.” Terry laughed again. “She married up. I’ll tell you what, I’ll ask her to get two girls for us and invite us to their Saturday dinner dance. It’ll be a change, it’ll be fun, and you’ll see for yourself what I mean. All right with you?”
“It’s fine with me,” said Eddy.
Buttonwood really was different. Age and elegance, a slightly sober elegance, registered their immediate impression upon Eddy’s sharp eyes. The house had very likely been the summer mansion of some railroad, oil, or banking tycoon back in the 1890s. No contemporary decorator had had anything to do with this dark, carved paneling or these gently faded English chintzes.
Apparently, no contemporary fashion dictator had had contact with the women either. They looked, he thought at once as he followed Terry through the crowd on the porch, they looked—well, underdressed, might one say? At his club on Saturday night the women glittered in jewels and dresses fit for an opera ball, jewels and dresses such as one saw in the Sunday papers’ society photographs.
Terry, having found their party, was making introductions.
“And this is my good friend, Eddy Osborne.”
The sister was a cordial older feminine copy of Terry. Her husband, whose name Eddy had not quite caught—it sounded like “Truscott”—was thin and bald; he had a lordly manner and cold eyes. He dislikes me, Eddy thought at
“By all means. Call him up. Want to use the phone now? I’ll leave the room.”
“No, no, Eddy. I’ll do it at home tonight. Come to think of it, I could get up a whole list of people, friends in Texas and people in my office too. You’d be helping them, and I guess they’d be helping you. That’s the way it works, isn’t it?”
“The way it works.” Eddy was pleased. “And I’ll appreciate the new business very much. It’s awfully generous of you to go to so much trouble.”
“What trouble? Anyway, people in families are supposed to do for each other, aren’t they? At least in Texas they are.”
“In Ohio too,” Eddy said cheerfully.
Richard stood up. “Well, it’s been a good day. I feel I’ve made a good start. Now I’m off for home.”
“And I’m off to the country. Spending the week at the club. I give myself a week’s vacation twice a year. I need it.”
“Great. Have fun. You deserve it.” The men shook hands, and Richard left.
“What a decent guy,” Eddy thought. “There’s something innocent about him. You wouldn’t think he came from Houston. You’d think he came from a two-horse town like mine.”
The club had quickly assumed the feel of home. When a young man, a not bad-looking young man, has a sense of humor, plays excellent tennis, is a good dancer, is friendly, and has some money, he can be at home anywhere, Eddy reflected as he lay alongside the pool.
On his left the golf course, a glaze of summer green, undulated toward some distant bushy hills. On his right below the terrace stood the line of umbrella tables, brightly orange. A lively chatter surrounded him.
“Gosh, it’s beautiful!” he exclaimed.
His friend and favorite tennis partner answered with a deprecation.
“You think this place is? I can show you a club that makes this look like a dump.”
“Not possible!”
“Oh, yes, it is. This place is vulgar, if you want to know. Nouveau riche, and it shows.”
Eddy set his cold beer aside and came to attention. “If it’s that bad, how come you’re a member?”
“Frankly, because they wouldn’t take me into Buttonwood. I’m nouveau riche.” Terry laughed. “And not all that ‘riche’ either.”
Now Eddy wanted to know more. “What are the differences between the two? Give me an example.”
“Oh, I don’t know. It’s the people, I guess, the way they look, who they are.”
“How do you know all this?”
“My sister married a member of Buttonwood.” Terry laughed again. “She married up. I’ll tell you what, I’ll ask her to get two girls for us and invite us to their Saturday dinner dance. It’ll be a change, it’ll be fun, and you’ll see for yourself what I mean. All right with you?”
“It’s fine with me,” said Eddy.
Buttonwood really was different. Age and elegance, a slightly sober elegance, registered their immediate impression upon Eddy’s sharp eyes. The house had very likely been the summer mansion of some railroad, oil, or banking tycoon back in the 1890s. No contemporary decorator had had anything to do with this dark, carved paneling or these gently faded English chintzes.
Apparently, no contemporary fashion dictator had had contact with the women either. They looked, he thought at once as he followed Terry through the crowd on the porch, they looked—well, underdressed, might one say? At his club on Saturday night the women glittered in jewels and dresses fit for an opera ball, jewels and dresses such as one saw in the Sunday papers’ society photographs.
Terry, having found their party, was making introductions.
“And this is my good friend, Eddy Osborne.”
The sister was a cordial older feminine copy of Terry. Her husband, whose name Eddy had not quite caught—it sounded like “Truscott”—was thin and bald; he had a lordly manner and cold eyes. He dislikes me, Eddy thought at
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