He reflected upon “pursuits to which a gentleman of my age may, with fitting dignity, apply himself,” and his ideas were random and impractical, but after a sufficient number of toddies they appeared to himself feasible and meritorious.  One day when he called for his first afternoon drink the negro waiter shuffled uncomfortably, and said, “I’m sorry, sir, but I was told I couldn’t serve you.”

“Why?” demanded the member, stiffening with indignation.

“Your name, sir, is posted on the suspended-credit list.  That’s my orders, sir.”

Tom Burton rose and stalked very stiffly, though no longer with his old time cock-sureness, for the last time out of the National Union Club, and spent the afternoon in the rear room of a saloon further east.

Paul, whose plight was as pitiable as that of a pet pomeranian turned out of a perfumed and cushioned boudoir to hold his own among foraging street curs, for a while bore up with an artificial courage.  Under the long strain of successive anxieties his mother had broken in body and mind, and Paul was with her much, though sometimes she did not recognize him, but called him Hamilton and begged him not to leave the mountains, lest life in a new world should hold worse things than poverty.

Hamilton’s dream-palace, with all its splendid plunder of art treasures, had gone under the hammer in satisfaction of a court judgment.  Next went the house which his parents had occupied, and before that all the servants had gone—­save one.  Yamuro’s passion of devotion to Hamilton had descended in a lesser degree to Paul and with the grave courtesy of the Samurai he waved aside all discussion of wages.  Had he not saved much money for a Japanese boy who needed little?  Already he could open a small shop and sell kimonos and jade trinkets and embroideries ... but that could wait until such time as his usefulness ended here.

The final day came, and the shrunken household effects were removed to a small apartment in Greenwich Village, so it was time for Paul to say good-by to Yamuro.  It was Yamuro who had found the flat and haggled explosively over the terms of the lease.  It had been Yamuro, too, who had gone with Mary, when she carried her mother’s jewels from place to place, offering them for sale.  The faithful little attendant knew that what was salvaged from such bargaining must be the last resort and sole capital of this shattered family.  As the lady with the pale, but lovely, face looking out from the shadow of her mourning veil went from dealer to dealer, he followed a step behind her, watchful of eye, guarding her remnant of treasure against possible mischance.

Now he stood with Paul in the room which the musician would not again occupy, and Paul’s eyes suddenly filled with tears while the son of a race called stoical turned away and occupied himself with a lump in his throat.

“Yamuro,” began the musician in an unsteady voice, “you aren’t a servant, you are a friend; good-by and God bless you.”