But Deacon did not see Jane Bostwick at the hotel--not to speak to,
at least. He was not a good dancer and held aloof when those of his
fellows who were not acquainted with guests were introduced around.
Finding a wicker settee among some palms at one side of the orchestra,
Deacon sat drinking in the scene.
It was not until the hour set for the return had almost arrived that
Deacon saw Jane Bostwick, and then his attention was directed to her
by her appearance with Junior Doane in one of the open French
windows at his right. Evidently the two had spent the evening in the
sequestered darkness of the veranda. No pair in the room filled the
eye so gratefully; the girl, tall, blonde, striking in a pale blue
evening gown; the man, broad-shouldered, trim-waisted, with the
handsome high-held head of a patrician.
A wave of something akin to bitterness passed over Deacon--bitterness
having nothing to do with self. For the boy was ruggedly independent.
He believed in himself; knew what he was going to do in the world.
He was thinking of his father, and of the fathers of that young man
and girl before him. His father was painstaking, honourable,
considerate--a nobleman every inch of him; a man who deserved
everything that the world had to give, a man who had everything save
the quality of acquisition.
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