A Hazard of New Fortunes, Complete
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The following story was the first fruit of my New York life when I began to live it after my quarter of a century in Cambridge and Boston, ending in 1889; and I used my own transition to the commercial metropolis in framing the experience which was wholly that of my supposititious literary adventurer. He was a character whom, with his wife, I have employed in some six or eight other stories, and whom I made as much the hero and heroine of 'Their Wedding Journey' as the slight fable would bear. In venturing out of my adoptive New England, where I had found myself at home with many imaginary friends, I found it natural to ask the company of these familiar acquaintances, but their company was not to be had at once for the asking.
of our struggling young writers and artists—” March had listened with growing amusement to the mingled burlesque and earnest of Fulkerson’s self-sacrificing impudence, and with wonder as to how far Dryfoos was consenting to his preposterous proposition, when Conrad broke out, “Mr. Fulkerson, I could not allow you to do that. It would not be true; I did not wish to be here; and—and what I think—what I wish to do—that is something I will not let anyone put me in a false position about. No!” The
silent while she dried her eyes and then put her handkerchief back into the pocket from which she had suddenly pulled it, with a series of vivid, young-ladyish gestures, which struck March by their incongruity with the occasion of their talk, and yet by their harmony with the rest of her elegance. “I am sorry, Miss Vance,” he began, “that I can’t really tell you anything more—” “You are very kind,” she said, controlling herself and rising quickly. “I thank you—thank you both very much.” She
the old man went on: “Well, all I wanted him to know is that I wasn’t trying to punish him for what he said about things in general. You naturally got that idea, I reckon, but I always went in for lettin’ people say what they please and think what they please; it’s the only way in a free country.” “I’m afraid, Mr. Dryfoos, that it would make little difference to Lindau now—” “I don’t suppose he bears malice for it,” said Dryfoos, “but what I want to do is to have him told so. He could
Woodburn, “it is time we should go. I bid you good night, madam,” he bowed to Mrs. Leighton. “Good night,” he bowed again to Alma. His daughter took leave of them in formal phrase, but with a jolly cordiality of manner that deformalized it. “We shall be roand raght soon in the mawning, then,” she threatened at the door. “We shall be all ready for you,” Alma called after her down the steps. “Well, Alma?” her mother asked when the door closed upon them. “She doesn’t know any more about art,”
philanthropist as you can to a street boys’ lodging house.” March laughed, and again the young man turned his head away. “Still, something can be done in that way by tact and patience.” VIII THAT EVENING March went with his wife to return the call of the Dryfoos ladies. On their way uptown in the elevated he told her of his talk with young Dryfoos. “I confess I was a little ashamed before him afterward for having looked at the matter so entirely from the aesthetic point of view. But of course,