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He strode again to the windows to stare out, his

back straight. "They can't ignore my invitations, not

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; when they responded," he mumbled to himself. I couldn't understand how his business friends

could dare to offend him when he had to be their most

important client, and everyone loved a party, especially the kind of party they had to know would be

sensational.

Somehow or other, Bart was accomplishing

miracles with that five hundred thousand a year,

making it grow in ways that Chris would have found

too risky. Bart risked everything . . . calculated

gambles that paid off handsomely. Only then did I

realize that perhaps my mother had meant it to be this

way. If she had given Bart all the fortune in one grand

huge sum, he wouldn't have worked as hard to build

his own fortune, which would, if he kept it up, far

exceed what Malcolm had left him And in this way

Bart would find his own worth.

Yet what did money matter when he was so

disappointed he couldn't eat a thing that was lavishly

displayed? However, disillusionment drove him to the liquor, and in a short while he'd managed to swallow half a dozen strong drinks as he paced the floors,

growing angrier by the second.

I could hardly bear to watch his

disappointment, and soon, despite myself, tears were

silently wetting my face.

Chris whispered, "We can't go to bed and leave

him here alone. Cathy, he's suffering. Look at him

pacing back and forth. With every step he takes his

anger grows. Somebody is going to pay for this

slight."