How to make money online selling toys

How to make money online selling toys

“I have no doubt of it, Lucy,” said Montague, in a low voice, “but how will you persuade the world of that? I told you what would happen if you permitted yourself to be intimate with a man like Stanley Ryder. You will find out too late what it means. Certainly that incident with Waterman ought to have opened your eyes to what people are saying.”

Lucy gave a start, and gazed at him with horror in her eyes. “Allan!” she panted.

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“What is it?” he asked.

“Do you mean to tell me that happened to me because Stanley Ryder is my friend?”

“Of course I do,” said he. “Waterman had heard the gossip, and he thought that if Ryder was a rich man, he was a ten-times-richer man.”

Montague could see the colour mount swiftly over Lucy's throat and face. She stood twisting her hands together nervously. “Oh, Allan!” she said. “That is monstrous!”

“It is not of my making. It is the way the world is. I found it out myself, and I tried to point it out to you.”

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“But it is horrible!” she cried. “I will not believe it. I will not yield to such things. I will not be coward enough to give up a friend for such a motive!”

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“I know the feeling,” said Montague. “I'd stand by you, if it were another man than Stanley Ryder. But I know him better than you, I believe.”

“You don't, Allan, you can't!” she protested. “I tell you he is a good man! He is a man nobody understands—”

Montague shrugged his shoulders. “It is possible,” he said. “I have heard that before. Many men are better than the things they do in this world; at any rate, they like to persuade themselves that they are. But you have no right to wreck your life out of pity for Ryder. He has made his own reputation, and if he had any real care for you, he would not ask you to sacrifice yourself to it.”

“He did not ask me to,” said Lucy. “What I have done, I have done of my own free will. I believe in him, and I will not believe the horrible things that you tell me.”

“Very well,” said Montague, “then you will have to go your own way.”

He spoke calmly, though really his heart was wrung with grief. He knew exactly the sort of conversation by which Stanley Ryder had brought Lucy to this state of mind. He could have shattered the beautiful image of himself which Ryder had conjured up; but he could not bear to do it. Perhaps it was an instinct which guided him—he knew that Lucy was in love with the man, and that no facts that anyone could bring would make any difference to her. All he could say was, “You will have to find out for yourself.”

And then, with one more look at her pitiful face of misery, he turned and went away, without even touching her hand.

It was now well on in May, and most of the people of Montague's acquaintance had moved out to their country places; and those who were chained to their desks had yachts or automobiles or private cars, and made the trip into the country every afternoon. Montague was invited to spend another week at Eldridge Devon's, where Alice had been for a week; but he could not spare the time until Saturday afternoon, when he made the trip up the Hudson in Devon's new three-hundred-foot steam-yacht, the Triton. Some unkind person had described Devon to Montague as “a human yawn”; but he appeared to have a very keen interest in life that Saturday afternoon. He had been seized by a sudden conviction that a new and but little advertised automobile had proven its superiority to any of the seventeen cars which he at present maintained in his establishment. He had got three of these new cars, and while Montague sat upon the quarter-deck of the Triton and gazed at the magnificent scenery of the river, he had in his ear the monotonous hum of Devon's voice, discussing annular ball-bearings and water-jacketed cylinders.

One of the new cars met them at Devon's private pier, and swept them over the hill to the mansion. The Devon place had never looked more wonderful to Montague than it did just then, with fruit trees in full blossom, and the wonder of springtime upon everything. For miles about one might see hillsides that were one unbroken stretch of luscious green lawn. But alas, Eldridge Devon had no interest in these hills, except to pursue a golf-ball over them. Montague never felt more keenly the pitiful quality of the people among whom he found himself than when he stood upon the portico of this house—a portico huge enough to belong to some fairy palace in a dream—and gazed at the sweeping vista of the Hudson over the heads of Mrs. Billy Alden and several of her cronies, playing bridge.

After luncheon, he went for a stroll with Alice, and she told him how she had been passing the time. “Young Curtiss was here for a couple of days,” she said.