"Of course you will," said Oliver. "Don't be foolish, Allan--you'll
find it's easy enough to make money in New York. Leave it to me, and
wait awhile."

But the other was not to be put off. He sat down on the embroidered
silk bedspread, and demanded abruptly, "What do you expect my income
to be a year?"

"I'm sure I don't know," laughed Oliver; "nobody takes the time to
add up his income. You'll make what you need, and something over for
good measure. This one thing you'll know for certain--the more you
spend, the more you'll be able to make."

And then, seeing that the sober look was not to be expelled from his
brother's face, Oliver seated himself and crossed his legs, and
proceeded to set forth the paradoxical philosophy of extravagance.
His brother had come into a city of millionaires. There was a
certain group of people--"the right set," was Oliver's term for
them--and among them he would find that money was as free as air. So
far as his career was concerned, he would find that there was
nothing in all New York so costly as economy. If he did not live
like a gentleman, he would find himself excluded from the circle of
the elect--and how he would manage to exist then was a problem too
difficult for his brother to face.

And so, as quickly as he could, he was to bring himself to a state
of mind where things did not surprise him; where he did what others
did and paid what others paid, and did it serenely, as if he had
done it all his life. He would soon find his place; meantime all he
had to do was to put himself into his brother's charge. "You'll find