The Truth About Tristrem Varick · Chapter 2 (2/2)

As he walked down Irving Place he fell to wondering who it was that he had heard complain of being obliged to give up cigarettes, not on account of parental interference but because of a tournament. Yet, after all, what matter did it make? Certainly, he told himself, the Weldons seemed to live very well. Royal must be making money. Mrs. Weldon⁠—Nanny, as Royal called her⁠—was a nice little thing, somewhat⁠—h’m, somewhat⁠—well, not quite up to Royal. She looked like that girl in Munich, the girl that lived over the way, only Mrs. Weldon was prettier and dressed better, much better. Du hast die schönsten Augen. Munich wasn’t a bad place, but what a hole Innsbrück was. There was that Victoria Cross fellow; whatever became of him? He drank like a fish; it must have caught him by this time. H’m, he would give me the address of his shoemaker. I ought to have taken more from that man in Paris. Odd that the Cenerentola was the last thing I should have heard there. The buffo was good, so was the contralto. She sings much better. What a voice! what a voice! Now, which was the more perfect, the voice or the girl? Let me see, which is the better fulfilled, the odor of the lily or the lily itself? Tulips I never cared for⁠ ⁠… That is it, then. I wonder, though⁠—

Tristrem had reached the house in Waverley Place. He let himself in with a latchkey, and went to his room. There he sat a while, companioned only by his thoughts. Before he fell asleep, his patriotism was riveted. A land that could produce such a specimen of girlhood outvalued Europe, Asia, and Africa combined⁠—aye, a thousand times⁠—and topped and exceeded creation.