r things, as we
knew, and as he must have known too. He left them without much regret
and without much ceremony, and took us on to the next place.

"It's life, isn't it?" he said in so many words.

Raymond's nose went up disdainfully. "Life!" Some such manifestations,
if properly handled and framed, might be life in Paris, perhaps; but he
could not accept them as life here at home, within a mile or two of his
own study. What this evening offered him seemed to require a
considerable touch of refining before it could reach acceptance. It was
all only an imperfectly specious substitute for life, only a coarse
parody on life. The town, he told me the next day, made him think of a
pumpkin: it was big and sudden and coarse-textured. "I've had enough of
it," he added; "I want something different, and something a lot better."

Johnny, as I say, took us to the next place; we might not have known how
to take ourselves there. Johnny honestly liked the glare, the noise, the
uproarious music, and the human press both on the sidewalks and in the
packed, panting interiors. I liked it all, too,--for once in a way; but
I soon saw that, for Raymond, even once in a way was once too often. In
this last place a girl with a hand too familiarly laid on his arm gave
the finishing touch; it was a coarse, dingy little hand, with some
tawdry rings. Raymond never liked close quarters; neither in those days,
nor ever after, did he care to come decisively to grips with actual
life. "Keep off!" was what his look said to the offender. The poor,
puzzled little debutante quickly stepped back, and we all regained the
street. Raymond was trembling with embarrassment and vexation.

"Why, you were making a hit," said Johnny.

"Let's get home," said Raymond to me, ignoring Johnny. "This is enough,
and more than enough. What a hole this town is coming to be!"

V

Raymond stayed on at the bank, though--if one might judge by his words
and actions--with no enthusiasm in the present and no hopefulness for
the future. He did what he had to do, and did it fairly well; but there
was no sign that he was looking forward, and there remained scant
likelihood that he would meet the expectations of his father and
grandfather by mastering the business. On the contrary, I think he
actually set his face against it: he seemed as resolute not to learn
banking as he had been resolute not to learn dancing. Professor Baltique
and the little girls in light-soled shoes and