"Do you mean to say," exclaimed Wilmer, "that you're not doing this
for fun?"

"Fun?" cried Paul. "Fun? Do you call this comic?" He waved his hand
comprehensively, indicating the decayed pink-and-purple wall-paper,
the ragged oil-cloth on the floor, the dingy window with its dingier
outlook, the rickety deal wash-stand with the paint peeling off, a
horrible clothless tray on a horrible splotchy chest of drawers,
containing the horrible scraggy remains of a meal. "Do you think I
would have this if I could command silken sloth? I long like hell,
old chap, for silken sloth, and if I could get it, you wouldn't see
me here."

Wilmer rose and stretched out his hand. "I'm sorry, dear boy," said
he. "The wife and I thought it didn't very much matter to you. We
always thought you were a kind of young swell doing it for amusement
and experience--and because you never put on side, we liked you."

Paul rose from the bed and put his hand on Wilmer's shoulder. "And
now you're disappointed?"

He laughed and his eyes twinkled humorously. His vagabond life had
taught him some worldly wisdom. The sallow and ineffectual man
looked confused. His misery was beyond the relief of smiles.

"We're all in the same boat, old chap," said Paul, "except that I'm
alone and haven't got wife and kids to look after."

"Good-bye, my boy," said Wilmer. "Better luck next time. But chuck