Something must be done.  Otherwise, that deprivation of the luxuries of life which to the aristocratic is starvation.

I stated my plans to my mother.  They were based in part upon my well-known pecuniary success at billiards—­I need not say that I prefer the push game, as requiring no expenditure of muscular force.  They were also based in part upon my intimacy with a distinguished operator in Wall Street.  Our capital would infallibly have been quadrupled,—­what do I say? decupled, centupled, in a short space of time.

My mother is a good, faithful creature.  She looks up to me as a Bratley should to a Chylde.  She appreciates the honor my father did her by his marriage, and I by my birth.  I have frequently remarked a touching fidelity of these persons of the lower classes of society toward those of higher rank.

“I would make any sacrifice in the world,” she said, “to help you, my dear A—–­”

“Hush!” I cried.

I have suppressed my first name as unmelodious and connecting me too much with a religious persuasion meritorious for its wealth alone.  Need I say that I refer to the faith of the Rothschild?

“All that I have is yours, my dear Bratley,” continued my mother.

Quite touching! was it not?  I was so charmed, that I mentally promised her a new silk when she went into half-mourning, and asked her to go with me to the opera as soon as she got over that feeble tendency to tears which kept her eyes red and unpresentable.

“I would gladly aid you,” the simple-hearted creature said, “in any attempt to make your fortune in an honorable and manly way.”

“Brava! brava!” I cried, and I patted applause, as she deserved.  “And you had better make over your stocks to me at once,” I continued.

“I cannot without your Uncle Bratley’s permission.  He is my trustee.  Go to him, my dear son.”

I went to him very unwillingly.  My father and I had always as much as possible ignored the Bratley connection.  They live in a part of New York where self-respect does not allow me to be seen.  They are engaged in avocations connected with the feeding of the lower classes.  My father had always required that the females of their families should call on my mother on days when she was not at home to our own set, and at hours when they were not likely to be detected.  None of them, I am happy to say, were ever seen at our balls or our dinners.

I nerved myself, and penetrated to that Ultima Thule where Mr. Bratley resides.  His house already, at that early hour of two, smelt vigorously of dinner.  Nothing but the urgency of my business could have induced me to brave these odors of plain roast and boiled.

A mob of red-faced children rushed to see me as I entered, and I heard one of them shouting up the stairs,—­

“Oh, pa! there’s a stiffy waiting to see you.”

The phrase was new to me.  I looked for a mirror, to see whether any inaccuracy in my toilet might have suggested it.