ed for a place as tutor in a third-class
school, and could not pass the examinations. I know nothing
accurately. Nothing."

It occurred to him to go into politics and help reform the world by
routing a certain Irish boss. He made a speech at a ward meeting, and
broke down in the middle of it before the storm of gibes and hootings.

"What was the matter?" he asked a friend, whose face was red with
laughter.

"My dear fellow, you shouldn't lecture them! You're not the parson.
They resent your air of enormous superiority. For Heaven's sake, don't
speak again--in this campaign."

It is a wretched story. There is no need of going into the details.
There was no room for him. He tried in desperation to get some
foothold in business. The times were hard that winter, which of course
was against him. Besides, his critical, haughty air naturally did not
prepossess employers in his favor when he came to ask for a job.

At the end of the second year the man broke down.

"The work of the world," he told Frances, "belongs to specialists.
Even a bootblack knows his trade. I know nothing. I can do nothing.
I am a mass of flabby pretences."

Every month she filled his pocket-book. She found at last that he did
not touch the money. He sold his clothes and his jewelry to keep
himself alive while he tramped the streets of New York looking for
work. He starved himself to make this money last. His flesh was
lead-colored from want of proper food, and he staggered from weakness.
"'He that will not work neither let him eat,'" he said grimly.

It was about this time that Miss Vance came home. Mrs. Waldeaux in a
moment of weakness gave her a hint of his defeat.

"Is the world blind," she cried, "to deny work to a man of George's
capacity? What does it mean?"

Clara heard of George's sufferings with equanimity. "The truth is,"
she said, when she told the story to Miss Dunbar, "Frances brought that
boy up to believe that he was a Grand Llama among men. There is no
work for Grand Llamas in this country, and when he understands that he
is made of very ordinary clay indeed, he will probably be of some use
in the world."

Lucy was watering her roses. "It is a matter of indifference to me,"
she said, "what the people of New York think of Mr. Waldeaux."

Clara looked at her quickly. "I do not quite catch your meaning?" she
said.

But Lucy filled her can, and forgot to answer.

CHAPTER XVII

Clara had brough