“Rich men were invented for the use of poor artists:  it’s the only excuse they have for existing at all, that I can see,” said Peter, composedly.

“But you’d have a so much better time buying, than selling—­or rather, trying to sell,” said one of the rich men, smiling good-humoredly.

“I’ll have a better time working, than in either buying or selling,” said Peter, and looked at his uncle with uncompromising eyes.

Mr. Chadwick Champneys sighed, face to face with Champneys obstinacy.  Peter would keep his promise to the letter, but aside from that he would live his own life in his own way.

He had stared, and his jaw dropped, when he was calmly informed that Peter intended to take old Emma Campbell and a black cat along with him.  Then he had laughed, almost hysterically, and incidentally discovered that being laughed at didn’t move Peter in the least; he was too used to it.  He allowed you to laugh at him, smiled a bit wryly himself, and went right ahead doing exactly what he had set out to do.  This sobered Mr. Champneys.

“Peter,” said he, after a pause, “allow me to ask you a single question:  do you propose to go through life toting old niggers and black cats?”

“Uncle Chad,” replied Peter, “do you remember how sweet potatoes roasted in the ashes of a colored person’s fire used to taste, when you were a little boy?”

A reminiscent glow spread over Uncle Chad’s face.  He shaded his eyes with his hand, and stared under it at Peter.  Something quizzical and tender was in that look.

“I see you do,” said Peter, with the same look.  “Well, Uncle Chad, Emma used to roast those potatoes—­and provide them too.  Sometimes they were all the dinner I had.  Besides,” mused Peter, “when all’s said and done, nobody has more than a few friends from his cradle to his grave.  If I’ve got two, and they don’t want to part with me, why should they have to?”

Mr. Chadwick Champneys spread out his hands.  “Put like that,” he admitted, “why should they, indeed!  Take ’em along if you like, Nephew.”  And of a sudden he laughed again.  “Oh, Peter!” he gasped, “you dear dam-fool!”

Peter had a strenuous afternoon.  Reservations had to be secured for Emma, for whom he also purchased a long coat and a steamer rug.  He himself had to have another suit:  his uncle protested vehemently against the nice new one he had bought in Charleston.

At dusk he watched New York’s lights come out as suddenly and as goldenly as evening primroses.  Riverton drowsing among its immemorial oaks beside the salty tide-water, the stars reflected in its many coves, the breath of the pines mingling with the wild breath of the sea sweeping through it, the little, deserted brown house left like a last year’s nest close to the water—­how far removed they were from this glittering giantess and her pulsating power!  The electric lights winked and blinked, the roar of traffic arose in a multitudinous hum; and all this light and noise, the restless stir of an immense life, went to the head like wine.