circumspect life he had lived and his fidelity to his chosen upward path.



III


He was free to fall in love as profoundly as was in him, and during that
early hour of the agitated night, with that pit of hell roaring below to
the steady undertone of a thousand tramping feet, he felt, despite the fact
that all business was moribund for the present and his savings were in the
hot vaults of a dynamited bank, that he was a supremely fortunate young
man.

Moreover, this disaster furnished a steady topic for conversation. He was
aware that he contributed little froth and less substance to a dinner
table, that, in short, he did not keep up his end. Although he assured
himself that small talk was beneath a man of serious purpose, and that no
one could acquire it anyhow in society unless addicted to sport, still
there had been times when he was painfully aware that a dinner partner or
some bright charming creature whose invitation to call he had accepted,
looked politely bored or chattered desperately to cover the silences into
which he abruptly relapsed; when, "for the life of him he had not been able
to think of a thing to say."

Then, briefly, he had felt a bitter rebellion at fate for having denied him
the gift of a lively and supple mind, as well as those numberless worldly
benefits lavished on men far less deserving than he.

He felt dull and depressed after such revelations and sometimes considered