even scorched.  It’s a queer place—­New York—­full of queer people, living on shelves, like the preserves in a pantry.  Great though!  I’m getting to understand ’em a little, though they don’t understand me.  I suppose I’m queer to them.  Funny, isn’t it?  ’Old fashioned,’ a fellow called me the other day.  I didn’t know whether to hit him or take him by the hand.  I think he meant it as a compliment.  I had been polite, that’s all.  Most people don’t understand you when you say, ‘Thank you’ or ‘Excuse me.’  They just stare, and then dash on.  I used to wonder where they were all going and why they were rushing.  I don’t now.  I rush like the rest of ’em, even when I’ve got nothing to do of a morning but to buy a new cravat.  By Jove, I’m rattling on.  Is dinner ready?”

It was.  We dined on Horsham Manor’s simple fare, but Jerry ate it as though he had never been away.  And when dinner was over we adjourned to the library and talked far into the night.  I observed for one thing, that he was now smoking cigarettes with perfect facility.  I made no comment, but could not help recalling the fact that it was in this, too, that Eve had tempted and Adam fallen.  He ran on at a great rate, but said little of the girl Marcia, or indeed of any women.  I think he hadn’t been able to forget my attitude toward them, and in the light of his new contacts considered himself vastly superior to me in experience of the world.  But the mere fact that he now avoided mention of the Van Wyck girl advised me that his thoughts of her were of a sort which he thought I could not possibly comprehend.

He told of some of the things already mentioned, with humor and some bewilderment.  He had made it a habit to go and walk the streets for awhile every day when he could mingle with the crowds and try and get their point of view.  He hadn’t gotten very far yet, but he was learning.  He knew the different parts of the city and chose for his walks the East side by preference.  He had seen filth and squalor on one avenue and on the next one elegance and wealth.  The contrasts were amazing.

“Something’s wrong, Roger,” he said again and again.  “Something’s wrong.  It doesn’t seem fair somehow.  I’m sure the people on one street can’t all be deserving and those on another all undeserving.  The Fifth Avenue lot, the ones I associate with in the clubs, are all very well in their way, but they seem to waste a lot of time.  They don’t produce anything, they’re not helping to keep the world together.  The real workers are elsewhere.  I’ve seen ’em, talked to some of ’em.  They’ve got vitality that the other chaps haven’t.  Flynn’s friends are great.  I’ve been sparring with ’em—­some pretty good ones, too.”

“How did you manage?”

“All right.  You know, Flynn always said I gave promise of being a pretty good boxer, so I’ve been working a little in the afternoon at his gymnasium.  I had to, Roger, to keep in shape.  There are all sorts of chaps there, mostly professionals.  You know he’s training this new middleweight, Carty, for a fight next March.  I didn’t like to put on the gloves with any of ’em, but Flynn insisted.”