Picture Play Magazine (Mar-Aug 1916)

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252 The Turmoil to him. It was Sheridan's smoke, he was fond of telling himself ; coming from Sheridan's fires, which turned the Sheridan machinery that manufactured the internationally known Sheridan pump. It had been a sparsely settled community of gentlefolks when he built his first factory here. Since then, the town had grown beyond belief. Rows on rows of small houses took the place of the winding country lanes. Villas there were ; some of them cheap and tawdry, many of them expensive and still unlovely. Surpassing them all was the flamboyant stucco mansion that Sheridan had built for himself. He was inordinately proud of this huge building, and pointed with pride to it, contrasting its magnificence with the sober plainness of the old frame home of the Vertrees family, whose estate adjoined his own. Yet of recent days had come a realization that, while he had money enough to buy a dozen such homesteads as that in which Mr. and Mrs. Vertrees and their lovely daughter Mary lived, the Sheridans were outcasts so far as the V ertrees society was concerned. "What I want, I get," had been his favorite bon mot; and he set himself to invade the sacred social circle with the same zeal that had made him famous in the business world. He began with Mr. Vertrees -himself, a one-time successful holder of paying stocks, who had been wheedled into the purchase of paper in enterprises that failed. In a pinch, Sheridan had helped Mr. Vertrees, and he felt that he had a hold on this gentleman of the old school who despised the easy wealth of Sheridan and his crudities of speech. Mr. Vertrees and his wife and Mary still presented a brave appearance to the world, but they had mortgaged their home and had to practice many an economy to simulate prosperity. Sheridan knew exactly how matters stood in the Vertrees home, and he laughed grimly as he thought of his own treasure vaults. "Money is power/' he told himself, as he got into his limousine and ordered his man to drive him to the Vertrees place. The door was opened by a colored attendant, and he registered a mental note to dismiss his white door opener when he returned and install a darky. Mr. Vertrees was at home, and Sheridan grasped the delicate hand extended in greeting and gave it a squeeze that made the dignified owner of the homestead wince. "Howdy ! Just dropped in for a minute's chat," boomed the big voice of James Sheridan. "Been up to the neckin work, or I'd call oftener. Anything I can do for you in the way of business ?" Mr. Vertrees shook his head. "Thank you. You are very good," he said politely. "Don't mention it. Always glad to help out. W e're neighbors, you know, since I built my new hut. Pretty classylooking hut, too, eh? But, speaking about neighbors, will you tell me why my daughter Edith and your daughter Mary shouldn't be friends? Now, that's what I came over about. I want to take Miss Mary along to call on Edith. What do you say?" "I'll bring the ladies in and consult them — if you will excuse me." Mr. Vertrees bowed and left the room, to return presently with his wife, a frail little woman with tired eyes, and his daughter Mary, eighteen and lovely as a flower. "Kind of a reunion, isn't it?" said Sheridan, shaking hands with fervor. "I've not had much time to cultivate society, but have just begun to realize that I ought. So I brought the car around for you, Miss Mary, and I'm going to take you over to call on my daughter Edie. You'll come, eh?" "I am sure we thank you, Mr. Sher