y a word
about them, only I can't get accustomed to them and there's no use of
my saying that I can. I couldn't treat any girl the way they are treated
here. And I tell you another thing--none of the young girls whom I
know at home would treat me as these girls treat the men they know. I'm
queer, I guess, but I might as well make a clean breast of it all. I am
an ingrate, perhaps, but I can't help thinking that the old life at home
was the best. We loved our friends, and they were welcome at our table
any hour, day or night. We had plenty of time for everything; we lived
out of doors or in doors, just as we pleased, and we dressed to suit
ourselves, and nobody criticised. Why, if I drop into the Magnolia on my
way up-town and forget to wear a derby hat with a sack coat, or a black
tie with a dinner-jacket, everybody winks and nudges his neighbor. Did
you ever hear of such nonsense in your life?"

The boy paused as if the memory of some incident in which he was
ridiculed was alive in his mind. Peter's eyes were still fixed on his
face.

"Go on--I'm listening; and what else hurts you? Pour it all out. That's
what I came for. You said last night nobody would listen--I will."

"Well, then, I hate the sham of it all; the silly social distinctions;
the fits and starts of hospitality; the dinners given for show. Nothing
else going on between times; even the music is hired. I want to hear
music that bubbles out--old Hannah singing in the kitchen, and Tom, my
father's old butler, whistling to himself--and the dogs barking, and
the birds singing outside. I'm ashamed of myself making comparisons, but
that was the kind of life I loved, because there was sincerity in it."

"No work?" There was a note of sly merriment in the inquiry, but Jack
never caught it.

"Not much. My father was Judge and spent part of the time holding court,
and his work never lasted but a few hours a day, and when I wanted to go
fishing or shooting, or riding with the girls, Mr. Larkin always let me
off. And I had plenty of time to read--and for that matter I do here, if
I lock myself up in this room. That low library over there is full of my
father's books."

Again Peter's voice had a tinge of merriment in it.

"And who supported the family?" he asked in a lower voice.

"My father."

"And who supported him?"

The question brought Jack to a full stop. He had been running on,
pouring out his heart for the first time since his sojourn in New York,