let live with pleasantness.”  Naturally of a quick and humane heart there were moments when he felt an urgent desire to give out happiness, to add his proper share to the general sum of earthly contentment.  He was a man, in fact, who might be infallibly counted on for the “generous thing,” provided always that the “generous thing” was also the thing which he found it agreeable to perform.  In ancient Rome he would have been, without doubt, a popular politician, in Greece a Cyrenaic philosopher, in the Middle Ages a churchman conspicuous for his purple, and during the American Revolution a believer in the cause that wore the most gold lace.  It was not that he was lacking in patriotism, but that his patriotism responded best to a spectacular appeal.

At the luncheon hour, when he came out of his office to go to his club, he remembered that he had neglected to send roses to a woman with whom he had dined the week before she went to a hospital for a serious operation, and though the stop delayed his luncheon for half an hour, he left his car at the corner of Twenty-third Street to leave an order with his florist.  Then, after a simple meal, he put in a pleasant hour at the club, during which he managed to interest a great occulist in a chap he knew who was threatened with blindness but too poor to pay for the operation necessary to his recovery.  It was this conversation that recalled to him a friend who was ill with pneumonia in chambers just around the block, and he rushed off to enquire after him, before he attended to the unpacking of a new French motor car, and hurried to keep an engagement he had made with Gerty Bridewell to call on Laura Wilde.  A week ago, when the engagement was made, he had been urgent with Gerty about going, but now that the hour drew near he began to feel the necessity of the visit to be a bore.  Like all of his sensations, the impression Laura had made upon him had been vivid but easily effaced, and he was almost surprised at the disappointment he felt when, upon reaching the house, he found that she was not at home.

“It’s too hard,” commented Gerty, standing upon the front steps and glancing wistfully up at him from under the white feathers in her hat, “but there’s no help for it unless you care to call on Uncle Percival.”

“Uncle Percival?” he repeated, impatiently twirling his walking stick; “who’s he?”

“He’s a curiosity.”

“What kind of curiosity?  A live one?”

She nodded.  “The kind of curiosity that plays a flute.”

He began his descent of the steps, not replying until he stood with her upon the sidewalk before her carriage.  “I might have put up with a poet,” he remarked with his foreign shrug, “but I’m compelled to draw the line before a piper.”

“Well, I thought you would,” confessed Gerty, “or I shouldn’t have suggested it.”

“It seems, by the way, to be a family that runs to talent,” he laughed, while she paused a moment before entering her carriage.