When he had mentioned Lindsay's offer to Dresser, who was rising at
laborious hours and toiling in the McNamara and Hill's offices, he realized
how unmentionable and trifling were his grounds for hesitation. Dresser's
enthusiasm almost persuaded him that Lindsay had given him something
valuable. And if he found it difficult to explain his distaste for the
thing to Dresser, what would he have to say to other people--to the
Hitchcocks? Yet he made his reservations to himself at least: he was not
committed to his "career"; he should be merely a spectator, a free-lance, a
critic, who keeps the precious treasure of his own independence. Almost at
the start, however, he was made to realize that this nonchalance, which
vindicated himself in his own eyes, could not be evident to others. As he
was entering the Athenian hive one morning, he passed the Hitchcock
brougham drawn up by the curb near a jeweller's shop. Miss Hitchcock, who
was preparing to alight, gave him a cordial smile and an intelligent glance
that was not without a trace of malice. When he crossed the pavement to
speak to her, she fulfilled the malice of her glance:

"You find Dr. Lindsay isn't so bad, after all?" There was no time for
explanation. She passed on into the jeweller's with another smile on her
mobile face. He had to do his stammering to himself, annoyed at the quip of
triumph, at the blithe sneer, over his young vaporings. This trivial
annoyance was accentuated by the effusive cordiality of the great Lindsay,
whom he met in the elevator. Sommers did not like this _camaraderie_
of manner. He had seen Lindsay snub many a poor interne. In his mail, this
same morning, came a note from Mrs. E. G. Carson, inviting him to dinner: a
sign that something notable was expected of his career, for the Carsons
were thrifty of their favors, and were in no position to make social
experiments. Such was the merry way of the world, elsewhere as here, he
reflected, as he turned to the routine of the day.