wilderness of a conservatory, the dark bronze sculptures in the foyer, the marble floor and banister, the huge, almost awesome crystal chandelier hanging overhead, the two enormous ugly Gothic chairs on either side the staircase, he felt impressed yet not deflated, more as if he were in a store and taking stock. He neither approved nor disapproved; he simply filed an impression for a time when his judgment would al low him to assess it.
The butler, a portly, middle-aged man in livery, opened one of the double doors on the right. Since he had not asked for a name— somewhat surprisingly, for Dan had visions of his reading a formal announce ment—Dan concluded that he had been expected and described. He stood for a moment awkwardly, looking at a brightly lit living room, a grand piano, a harp, two enormous couches, overstuffed chairs, a huge Persian rug and five people: Seldon, who came forward to meet him, two older women, a man in his fifties, and a young woman who Dan, with only a glimpse of her face, felt was the most beautiful girl he had ever seen.
Seldon shook his hand. “Delighted, Lavette. Glad to see you.
Welcome to my home.” He then made the in troductions: “This is my wife, Mrs. Seldon—Daniel Lavette.” A tall, handsome woman; not friendly, simply courteous with a touch of the dubious as she extended a limp hand. “And Mrs. Whittier.” No hand at all this time, just a nod from a stout, tightly corseted woman, whose white satin gown was sewn over with hundreds of small pearls. “And this is Mr. Whittier. Mr. Daniel Lavette.” A small man with a waxed mustache; he, like Seldon, wore a dinner jacket and a black tie, a fact of which Dan was now painfully aware. He examined Dan with interest and curiosity and shook hands heartily.
On Dan’s part, he was unable to tear his eyes away from Jean
5 4
H o w a r d F a s t
Seldon, who sat in one corner of one of the great couches, her blue gown intensifying the pale blue of her eyes, watching him, just the faintest flicker of a smile on her lips. “My daughter, Miss Jean Seldon. And this is Daniel Lavette.”
He tried to think of something to say, something he had read, something he had heard—pleased, delighted, overwhelmed, he felt a sick, empty pit in his stomach—or simply how do you do ; yet no words would come, and he said nothing. Then she gave him her hand, a large, shapely, long-fingered hand yet lost in his own. He held it a moment and then let go.
“I’ve heard so much about you, Mr. Lavette,” she said. “You made quite an impression on my father. I can see why.”
He took it as a compliment and mumbled a thank you. The smile turned to light laughter. Was she laugh ing at him? The butler appeared at his elbow and asked what he would like to drink. He would have refused a drink, but the other men were drinking, and after a mo ment’s hesitation, he said that he would have a whiskey and soda. Jean Seldon watched him intently. He was conscious of her scrutiny. “Why don’t you sit down and tell me about yourself, Mr. Lavette?” she asked. Her manner of speech, her ease, so different from the easy intimacy of the dance-hall girls or the stiff shyness of the girls he met at Cassala’s house, was marvelous and new and intriguing. But now Seldon had taken his arm.
“Dan—you don’t mind if I call you Dan; I’m old enough to be your father—Whittier here’s the president of California Shipping.
He’s too fat and rich. He needs some young competition.”
Jean Seldon smiled at him and watched. The smile relinquished him for the moment, but it also established her proprietary interest for the evening. It said, You’re released for the moment, but only for the moment ; and he nodded slightly, the thought flashing through his head that this was what he had been looking for and dreaming of, this and nothing else.
t H e I m m I g r a n t s
5 5
“I hear you’re planning to buy the Oregon Queen , young man.”
“Yes, I
The butler, a portly, middle-aged man in livery, opened one of the double doors on the right. Since he had not asked for a name— somewhat surprisingly, for Dan had visions of his reading a formal announce ment—Dan concluded that he had been expected and described. He stood for a moment awkwardly, looking at a brightly lit living room, a grand piano, a harp, two enormous couches, overstuffed chairs, a huge Persian rug and five people: Seldon, who came forward to meet him, two older women, a man in his fifties, and a young woman who Dan, with only a glimpse of her face, felt was the most beautiful girl he had ever seen.
Seldon shook his hand. “Delighted, Lavette. Glad to see you.
Welcome to my home.” He then made the in troductions: “This is my wife, Mrs. Seldon—Daniel Lavette.” A tall, handsome woman; not friendly, simply courteous with a touch of the dubious as she extended a limp hand. “And Mrs. Whittier.” No hand at all this time, just a nod from a stout, tightly corseted woman, whose white satin gown was sewn over with hundreds of small pearls. “And this is Mr. Whittier. Mr. Daniel Lavette.” A small man with a waxed mustache; he, like Seldon, wore a dinner jacket and a black tie, a fact of which Dan was now painfully aware. He examined Dan with interest and curiosity and shook hands heartily.
On Dan’s part, he was unable to tear his eyes away from Jean
5 4
H o w a r d F a s t
Seldon, who sat in one corner of one of the great couches, her blue gown intensifying the pale blue of her eyes, watching him, just the faintest flicker of a smile on her lips. “My daughter, Miss Jean Seldon. And this is Daniel Lavette.”
He tried to think of something to say, something he had read, something he had heard—pleased, delighted, overwhelmed, he felt a sick, empty pit in his stomach—or simply how do you do ; yet no words would come, and he said nothing. Then she gave him her hand, a large, shapely, long-fingered hand yet lost in his own. He held it a moment and then let go.
“I’ve heard so much about you, Mr. Lavette,” she said. “You made quite an impression on my father. I can see why.”
He took it as a compliment and mumbled a thank you. The smile turned to light laughter. Was she laugh ing at him? The butler appeared at his elbow and asked what he would like to drink. He would have refused a drink, but the other men were drinking, and after a mo ment’s hesitation, he said that he would have a whiskey and soda. Jean Seldon watched him intently. He was conscious of her scrutiny. “Why don’t you sit down and tell me about yourself, Mr. Lavette?” she asked. Her manner of speech, her ease, so different from the easy intimacy of the dance-hall girls or the stiff shyness of the girls he met at Cassala’s house, was marvelous and new and intriguing. But now Seldon had taken his arm.
“Dan—you don’t mind if I call you Dan; I’m old enough to be your father—Whittier here’s the president of California Shipping.
He’s too fat and rich. He needs some young competition.”
Jean Seldon smiled at him and watched. The smile relinquished him for the moment, but it also established her proprietary interest for the evening. It said, You’re released for the moment, but only for the moment ; and he nodded slightly, the thought flashing through his head that this was what he had been looking for and dreaming of, this and nothing else.
t H e I m m I g r a n t s
5 5
“I hear you’re planning to buy the Oregon Queen , young man.”
“Yes, I
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