Digging a trench in the lawn at the back of the house he with
his friend spent his days trying to reduce the refuse of one of his
factories to something having commercial value. Fires burned in the
trench and at night the grim old man, hands covered with tar, sat in
the house under the chandelier. After the death of the merchant the
house stood empty, staring at passers-by in the street, its walks and
paths overgrown with weeds and rank grass.
David Ormsby fitted into his house. Walking through the long halls or
sitting smoking his cigar in an easy chair on the wide lawn he looked
arrayed and environed. The house became a part of him like a well-made
and intelligently worn suit of clothes. Into the drawing room under
the ten thousand dollar chandelier he moved a billiard table and the
click of ivory balls banished the churchliness of the place.
Up and down the stairway moved American girls, friends of Margaret,
their skirts rustling and their voices running through the huge rooms.
In the evening after dinner David played billiards. The careful
calculation of the angles and the English interested him. Playing in
the evening with Margaret or with a man friend the fatigue of the day
passed and his honest voice and reverberating laugh brought a smile to
the lips of people passing in the street.
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