"
"Speak for yourself, Oscar," said Fletcher, scornfully.
"I speak for both of us."
"Then I say I hope I can command better associates than this friend
of yours."
"You may, but I doubt it."
"You seem to be carried away by him," said Fitzgerald, pettishly. "I
don't see anything very wonderful about him, except dirty hands."
"Then you have seen more than I have."
"Of course a fellow who meddles with printer's ink must have dirty
hands. Faugh!" said Fletcher, turning up his nose.
At the same time he regarded complacently his own fingers, which he
carefully kept aloof from anything that would soil or mar their
aristocratic whiteness.
"The fact is, Fitz," said Oscar, argumentatively, "our upper ten, as
we call them, spring from just such beginnings as my friend Harry
Walton. My own father commenced life in a printing office. But, as
you say, he occupies a high position at present."
"Really!" said Fletcher, a little taken aback, for he knew that
Vincent's father ranked higher than his own.
"I daresay your own ancestors were not always patricians."
Fletcher winced. He knew well enough that his father commenced life
as a boy in a country grocery, but in the mutations of fortune had
risen to be the proprietor of a large dry-goods store on Washington
Street. None of the family cared to look back to the beginning of
his career.
Pages:
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64