When summer came and Society flitted to Newport, that paradise in which
he only half believed, he was more lonely and glum than the loneliest
and glummest and most _blasé_ clubman, who clung to his window because
he hated Newport and could not afford London. Quite accidentally, when
his infatuation was about three years old, he came into a singular
compensation. In the summer, during his ten days' vacation, when he was
tramping through the woods, he fell in with a party of Western people,
who manifested much interest in New York. To Andrew there was only one
New York, and with that his soul was identified. Insensibly, he began
to talk of New York Society as if it were part of his daily experience.
His careful, if restricted, study of its habits had made him
sufficiently familiar with it to enable him to deceive the wholly
ignorant. He described the people, their brilliant "functions," the
individualities of certain of its members. He talked freely of Ward
McAllister, and imitated that gentleman's peculiarities of thought and
speech, so familiar to the newspaper reader. For the time he deceived
himself as well as his hearers; and so fascinating did he find this
delusion, that he remained with the inquisitive and guileless party
until the end of his vacation. After that he made it a point each year
to attach himself to some party of tourists, and to tell them of New
York Society, plus Andrew Webb. He was not a liar in the ordinary sense
of the word. In his home and in the bank where he played his daily game
of give-and-take, his reputation for veracity was enviable. Every mortal
not an idiot has his day-dreams. Webb merely dreamed his aloud to an
audience. And these summers were the oases of his life.

He had one other pleasure equally keen. On the first day of each month
he dined at Delmonico's. In the beginning it meant the forfeit of his
usual stand-up luncheon, but he had decided that the cause was worthy
of the sacrifice. One evening, however, he lingered on upper Fifth