Godfrey Morgan | Page 7

by the involuntary movement of
his muscles. It seemed as though Dean Felporg, surfeited with the
surprises of public auction sales, would be unable to contain himself
any longer.
All glances were turned on J. R. Taskinar. That voluminous personage
was sensible of this, but still more was he sensible of the weight of
these three millions of dollars, which seemed to crush him. He would
have spoken, doubtless to bid higher--but he could not. He would have

liked to nod his head--he could do so no more.
After a long pause, however, his voice was heard; feeble it is true, but
sufficiently audible.
"Three millions, five hundred thousand!"
"Four millions," was the answer of William W. Kolderup.
It was the last blow of the bludgeon. J. R. Taskinar succumbed. The
hammer gave a hard rap on the marble table and--
Spencer Island fell for four millions of dollars to William W. Kolderup,
of San Francisco.
"I will be avenged!" muttered J. R. Taskinar, and throwing a glance of
hatred at his conqueror, he returned to the Occidental Hotel.
But "hip, hip, hurrah," three times thrice, smote the ears of William W.
Kolderup, then cheers followed him to Montgomery Street, and such
was the delirious enthusiasm of the Americans that they even forgot to
favour him with the customary bars of "Yankee Doodle."
CHAPTER III.
THE CONVERSATION OF PHINA HOLLANEY AND GODFREY
MORGAN, WITH A PIANO ACCOMPANIMENT.
William W. Kolderup had returned to his mansion in Montgomery
Street. This thoroughfare is the Regent Street, the Broadway, the
Boulevard des Italiens of San Francisco. Throughout its length, the
great artery which crosses the city parallel with its quays is astir with
life and movement; trams there are innumerable; carriages with horses,
carriages with mules; men bent on business, hurrying to and fro over its
stone pavements, past shops thronged with customers; men bent on
pleasure, crowding the doors of the "bars," where at all hours are
dispensed the Californian's drinks.

There is no need for us to describe the mansion of a Frisco nabob. With
so many millions, there was proportionate luxury. More comfort than
taste. Less of the artistic than the practical. One cannot have
everything.
So the reader must be contented to know that there was a magnificent
reception-room, and in this reception-room a piano, whose chords were
permeating the mansion's warm atmosphere when the opulent Kolderup
walked in.
"Good!" he said. "She and he are there! A word to my cashier, and then
we can have a little chat."
And he stepped towards his office to arrange the little matter of
Spencer Island, and then dismiss it from his mind. He had only to
realize a few certificates in his portfolio and the acquisition was settled
for. Half-a-dozen lines to his broker--no more. Then William W.
Kolderup devoted himself to another "combination" which was much
more to his taste.
Yes! she and he were in the drawing-room--she, in front of the piano;
he, half reclining on the sofa, listening vaguely to the pearly arpeggios
which escaped from the fingers of the charmer.
"Are you listening?" she said.
"Of course."
"Yes! but do you understand it?"
"Do I understand it, Phina! Never have you played those 'Auld Robin
Gray' variations more superbly."
"But it is not 'Auld Robin Gray,' Godfrey: it is 'Happy Moments.'"
"Oh! ah! yes! I remember!" answered Godfrey, in a tone of indifference
which it was difficult to mistake. The lady raised her two hands, held
them suspended for an instant above the keys as if they were about to

grasp another chord, and then with a half-turn on her music-stool she
remained for a moment looking at the too tranquil Godfrey, whose eyes
did their best to avoid hers.
Phina Hollaney was the goddaughter of William W. Kolderup. An
orphan, he had educated her, and given her the right to consider herself
his daughter, and to love him as her father. She wanted for nothing. She
was young, "handsome in her way" as people say, but undoubtedly
fascinating, a blonde of sixteen with the ideas of a woman much older,
as one could read in the crystal of her blue-black eyes. Of course, we
must compare her to a lily, for all beauties are compared to lilies in the
best American society. She was then a lily, but a lily grafted into an
eglantine. She certainly had plenty of spirit, but she had also plenty of
practical common-sense, a somewhat selfish demeanour, and but little
sympathy with the illusions and dreams so characteristic of her sex and
age.
Her dreams were when she was asleep, not when she was awake. She
was not asleep now, and had no intention of being so.
"Godfrey?" she continued.
"Phina?" answered the young man.
"Where are you now?"
"Near you--in this room--"