"The love of money is the root of all evil." To illustrate the old proverb Edgar Saltus once more wraps his undisputed talent in an unsavory napkin and buries it under all his well-known theories of disenchantment, negation, and pessimism. New York and Paris furnish the setting for this tale of fast life and low motive.
t had evoked.
"Of course," Jones was saying, in reference, evidently, to what had gone before--"of course as millionaires go he is not first chop. Jerolomon could match him head or tail for all he has, and never miss it if he lost. Ten million, though, is a tidy sum--just enough to entertain on. A penny less and you are pinched. Why, you would be surprised--"
"Has he any other children?"
"Who? Dunellen? None that he has acknowledged."
"Then his daughter will come in for it all."
"That's what I said. When she does, she will probably hand it over to some man who wont know how to spend it. She's got a cousin--what's that beggar's name? However, he's a physician, makes a specialty of nervous diseases, I believe; good enough fellow in his way, but an everlasting bore--the sort of man you would avoid in a club, and trust your sister to. What the deuce is his name?"
"Well, what of him?"
"Ah, yes. I fancy he wants to get married, and when he does, to entertain