A sort of cold dismay—­something akin to fear—­filled me when I had estimated him.  I found a man so perfectly poised, so charming, so deeply learned in the world’s rituals, so full of tact, courtesy, and hospitality, so endowed with grace and ease and a kind of careless, haughty power that I almost overstepped the bounds in probing him, in turning him on the spit to find the weak point that I so craved for him to have.  But I left him whole—­I had to make bitter acknowledgment to myself that Louis Devoe was a gentleman worthy of my best blows; and I swore to give him them.  He was a great merchant of the country, a wealthy importer and exporter.  All day he sat in a fastidiously appointed office, surrounded by works of art and evidences of his high culture, directing through glass doors and windows the affairs of his house.

In person he was slender and hardly tall.  His small, well-shaped head was covered with thick, brown hair, trimmed short, and he wore a thick, brown beard also cut close and to a fine point.  His manners were a pattern.

Before long I had become a regular and a welcome visitor at the Greene home.  I shook my wild habits from me like a worn-out cloak.  I trained for the conflict with the care of a prize-fighter and the self-denial of a Brahmin.

As for Chloe Greene, I shall weary you with no sonnets to her eyebrow.  She was a splendidly feminine girl, as wholesome as a November pippin, and no more mysterious than a window-pane.  She had whimsical little theories that she had deduced from life, and that fitted the maxims of Epictetus like princess gowns.  I wonder, after all, if that old duffer wasn’t rather wise!

Chloe had a father, the Reverend Homer Greene, and an intermittent mother, who sometimes palely presided over a twilight teapot.  The Reverend Homer was a burr-like man with a life-work.  He was writing a concordance to the Scriptures, and had arrived as far as Kings.  Being, presumably, a suitor for his daughter’s hand, I was timber for his literary outpourings.  I had the family tree of Israel drilled into my head until I used to cry aloud in my sleep:  “And Aminadab begat Jay Eye See,” and so forth, until he had tackled another book.  I once made a calculation that the Reverend Homer’s concordance would be worked up as far as the Seven Vials mentioned in Revelations about the third day after they were opened.

Louis Devoe, as well as I, was a visitor and an intimate friend of the Greenes.  It was there I met him the oftenest, and a more agreeable man or a more accomplished I have never hated in my life.

Luckily or unfortunately, I came to be accepted as a Boy.  My appearance was youthful, and I suppose I had that pleading and homeless air that always draws the motherliness that is in women and the cursed theories and hobbies of paterfamilias.