VI

That evening, as he sat with Chapman over the coffee in the stately
little dining-room of the victim of cordage, the journalist remarked
suddenly:

"I say, old fellow, you don't seem to be in it. Don't you know anybody
here at all?"

Andrew shook his head gloomily.

"Well, you'll have a stupid time, I'm afraid. There are only three
classes of people that come to Newport--the swells, the people who want
to see the swells, and the correspondents whose unhappy fate it is to
report the doings of the swells. Now, what on earth did you come here
for?"

Andrew had not a confiding nature, but he could not repress a dark
flush. The astute little journalist understood it.

"It's too bad you didn't bring a letter or two. One would have made it
easy work. You look as well as any of them, and you've got the boodle.
Where did you come from, anyway?"

"New York."

Chapman puckered his lips about his cigar. "That's bad. It's harder for
a non-commissioned New-Yorker to get into society than for a
district-attorney to get into heaven. Didn't you make any swagger
friends at college?"