for probating honey's will he asked leave to come and consult mr. ansley. an appointment was made for an evening when that gentleman was to be at home.

tom, who had some gift for character, was beginning to understand him. understanding him, it seemed to him that he understood all that old boston which had once been a national institution, a force in the country's history, and now, like a man retired from business, sat resting on its hill.

old boston was more significant, however, than a man retired from business, in that it was to a great degree a man retired from the pushing of ideals. generous once with the hot generosity of youth, keen to throw itself into the fight against wrongs, ready to be slaughtered in the van rather than compromise on principles, old boston had now reached the age of mellowness. it had grown weary in well-doing. it had done enough. contending with national evils had proved to be futile. national evils had grown too big, too many, too insurgent. better make the best of life as your people mean to live it. keep quiet; take it easy; save money; let the country gang its own gait. a big turbulent country, with no more respect for old boston than for the prophet jeremiah, it wallowed in prosperous vul

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garity. let it wallow! with solid investments in cotton and copper old boston could save its own soul. it withdrew from its country; it withdrew from its state; it withdrew from its own city. where its ancestors had made the laws and administered them, it became, like those proud old groups of spaniards still to be found in california, a remnant of a former time, making no further stand against the invader. with a little art, a little literature, a little music, a little education, a little religion, a little mild beneficence, and a great deal of astute financial and professional ability, it could pass its time and keep its high-mindedness intact.

to tom's summing up this was philip ansley. he was able, public-spirited, and generous; but he was disillusioned. the united states of his forefathers, of which he kept the ideal in his soul, had turned into such a hodgepodge of mankind, that he had neither hope nor sentiment with regard to it. in his heart he believed that its governments were in the hands of what he called a bunch of crooks. with congresses, state legislatures, and civic councils elected by what to him were hordes of ignoramuses, with laws dictated by cranks and fanatics, with the old-time liberties stampeded by the tyranny of majorities lacking a sense of responsibility, he deemed it prudent to follow the line of least resistance and give himself to making money. apart from casting his vote for the republican ticket on election days, he left city, state, and country to the demagogues and looters. he was sorry to do this, yet with the world as it was, he saw no help for it.

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but he served as director on the boards of a good many companies; he was an overseer of harvard, a trustee of the museum of fine arts, the treasurer of several hospitals, a subscriber to every important philanthropic fund. his club was the somerset; his church was trinity. for old boston these two facts when taken together placed him in that sacred shrine which in england consecrates dowager duchesses.

when tom was shown up he found his host in the room where two years earlier they had talked over the place as chauffeur, but he was no longer awed by it. neither was he awed by finding ansley wearing a dinner-jacket simply because it was evening. the conventions and amenities of civilized life were becoming a matter of course to him.

"how d'ye do? come in. sit down. what's the weather like outside? still pretty cold for april, isn't it?"

though he offered his hand only from his armchair, where he sat reading the evening paper, he offered it. it was also a tribute to tom's progress that he was asked to take a seat. a still further sign of his having reached a position remotely on a footing of equality with the ansleys was an invitation to help himself from a silver box of cigarettes.

having respectfully declined this honor, as ansley himself was not smoking, he stated his errand. if mr. ansley would introduce him to some young inexpensive lawyer, who would tell him what to do in the probating of honey's will....

the business was soon settled. in possession of ansley's card with a scribbled line on it, tom rose to

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take his leave. ansley rose also, but moved toward the fireplace, where a few sticks were smoldering, as if he had something more to say.

"wait a minute. sit down again. have a cigarette."

as ansley himself lighted a cigar, tom took a cigarette from the silver box, and leaned against the back of the big chair from which he had just risen. once more he was struck by the resemblance between the shrewd close-lipped face, dropping into its meditative cast, and the lampshade just below it, parchment with a touch of rose, and an inner light. ansley puffed for a minute or two pensively.

"you've no family, i believe. you haven't got the complications of a lot of relatives."

tom was surprised by the new topic. "no, sir. i wish i had, but—"

"oh, well, for a young fellow like you, bound to get on—" he dropped this line to take up another. "i'm thinking about guy. occurred to me the other day that while he'd been dragged about europe a good many times he didn't know anything of his own country. never been west of the hudson."

tom smoked and wondered.

"i've suggested to him to take his summer's vacation and wander about. get the lay of the land. could cover a good deal of ground in three months. zigzag up and down—niagara—colorado—chicago—grand canyon—california—seattle—back if he liked by the canadian pacific. what would you think?"

"i think it would be great."

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"would you go with him?"

it seemed to tom that his brain was spinning round. not only was he too dazed to find words, but the question of money came first. how could he afford ...?

but ansley went on again. "it's a choice between you and a tutor. my wife would like a tutor. guy wants you. so do i. you'd have your traveling expenses, of course—do everything the same as guy—and, let us say, five hundred dollars for your time. would that suit you?"

he didn't know how to answer. excitement, gratitude, and a sense of insufficiency churned together and choked him. it was only by spluttering and stammering that he could say at last:

"if—if mrs. ansley—d-doesn't w-want me—"

"oh, she'd give in. simply feels that guy'd get more good out of it if he had some one to point out moral lessons as he went along. i don't. two young fellows together, if they're at all the right kind, 'll do each other more good than all the law and the prophets."

"but would you mind telling me, sir, something of what you'd expect from me?"

"oh, nothing! just play round with him, and have a good time. you seem to chum up with him all right."

tom was distressed. "yes, sir, but if i'm to be—to be paid for chumming up with him i should have to—"

"forget it. i want guy to take the trip. it's not the kind of trip anyone wants to take alone, and

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you're the fellow he'd like to have with him. i'd like it too. you understand him."

he turned round to knock the ash from his cigar into the dying fire.

"trouble with guy is that he has no sense of values. thing he needs to learn is what's worth while and what's not. i don't want you to teach him. i just want him to see. what do you say?"

tom hung his head, not from humility but to think out a point that troubled him.

"you know, sir"—he looked up again—"that when guy and i get together we talk about things that—well, that you mightn't like."

"i don't care a hang what you talk about."

"yes, sir; but this is something particular."

"well, then, keep it to yourself."

"i can't keep it to myself because—because some day you might think that i'd had a bad ... as long as we've just been chums ... and i wasn't paid—"

ansley moved away from the fireplace, striding up and down in front of it.

"look here, my boy! i know what young fellows are. i know you talk about things you wouldn't bring up before mrs. ansley and me. i don't care. it's what i expect. do you both good. you're not specially vicious, either of you, and even if you were—"

"it's not a matter of morals, sir; it's one of opinions."

he dismissed this lightly. "oh, opinions!"

"but this is a special kind of opinion. you see, sir, i've always been poor. i've lived among poor

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people. i've seen how much they have to go without. and i begin to see all that rich people have more than they need—more than they can ever use."

"oh, quite so! i see! i see! and you both get a bit revolutionary. go to it, boy! fellows of your age who're not boiling over with rebellion against social conditions as they are'll never be worth their salt. don't say anything about it before mrs. ansley, but between yourselves.... why, when i was an undergraduate.... you'll live through it, though.... the poor people don't want any champions.... they don't want to be helped.... you get sick of it in the long run.... but while you're young boil away.... if that's all that bothers you...."

tom explained that it was all that bothered him, and the bargain was struck. he had expressed his thanks, shaken hands, and reached the threshold on the way out when ansley spoke again.

"guy tells me that out at cambridge they call you the whitelaw baby. i suppose you know all about yourself—your people—where you began—that sort of thing?"

he decided to be positive, laconic, to do what he could to squelch the idea in ansley's mind.

"yes, sir; i do."

"then that settles that."