Launched into the world after the elder Marrineal’s death, Tertius interested himself in sundry of the businesses left by his father.  Though they had been carefully devised and surrounded with safeguards, the heir managed to break into and improve several of them.  The result was more money.  After having gambled with fair luck, played the profuse libertine for a time, tried his hand at yachting, horse-racing, big-game hunting, and even politics, he successively tired of the first three, and was beaten at the last, but retained an unsatisfied hunger for it.  To celebrate his fortieth birthday, he had bought a house on the eastern vista of Central Park, and drifted into a rather indeterminate life, identified with no special purpose, occupation, or set.  Large though his fortune was, it was too much disseminated and he was too indifferent to it, for him to be conspicuous in the money game which constitutes New York’s lists of High Endeavor.  His reputation, in the city of careless reckonings, was vague, but just a trifle tarnished; good enough for the casual contacts which had hitherto made up his life, but offering difficulties should he wish to establish himself more firmly.

The best clubs were closed to him; he had reached his possible summit along that path in achieving membership in the recently and superbly established Oligarchs Club, which was sumptuous, but over-vivid like a new Oriental rug.  As to other social advancement, his record was an obstacle.  Not that it was worse than, nor indeed nearly as bad as, that of many an established member of the inner circle; but the test for an outsider seeking admittance is naturally made more severe.  Delavan Eyre, for example, an average sinner for one of his opportunities and standing, had certainly no better a general repute, and latterly a much more dubious one than Marrineal.  But Eyre “belonged” of right.

As sufficient indication of Marrineal’s status, by the way, it may be pointed out that, while he knew Eyre quite well, it was highly improbable that he would ever know Mrs. Eyre, or, if he did fortuitously come to know her, that he would be able to improve upon the acquaintance.  All this Marrineal himself well understood.  But it must not be inferred that he resented it.  He was far too much of a philosopher for that.  It amused him as offering a new game to be played, more difficult certainly and inferentially more interesting than any of those which had hitherto enlisted his somewhat languid efforts.  He appreciated also, though with a cynical disbelief in the logic of the situation, that he must polish up his reputation.  He was on the new quest at the time when he overheard Banneker and Edmonds discuss the journalistic situation in Katie’s restaurant, and had already determined upon his procedure.