And you'll see me among these butterflies and
hoptoads no more."
"Can't trust yourself, eh?" suggested Arkwright.
Craig flashed exaggerated scorn that was confession.
"I'll do better than introduce you to Towler," proceeded
Arkwright. "I'll present you to his daughter--a dyed and padded
old horror, but very influential with her father and all the older
crowd. Sit up to her, Josh. You can lay the flattery on as thick
as her paint and as high as her topknot of false hair. If she
takes to you your fortune's made."
"I tell you, my fortune is not dependent on--" began Craig
vehemently.
"Cut it out, old man," interrupted Arkwright. "No stump speeches
here. They don't go. They bore people and create an impression
that you're both ridiculous and hypocritical."
Arkwright left Josh with Towler's daughter, Mrs. Raymond, who was
by no means the horror Arkwright's language of fashionable
exaggeration had pictured, and who endured Craig's sophomoric
eulogies of "your great and revered father," because the eulogist
was young and handsome, and obviously anxious to please her. As
Arkwright passed along the edge of the dancers a fan reached out
and touched him on the arm.
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