The sumptuous lining of the coat gleamed as he laid it on the hall-table; there was something unconquerable, sumptuous, genial, undaunted yet about the man.  He had the courtesy of a prince, this poor American who had lived by the exercise of his sharper wits on his neighbor’s dull ones, if report said rightly.  And yet Anderson, as he sat opposite Carroll, and they were both smoking in a comrade-like fashion, doubted.  There was something in the man’s face which seemed to belie the theory that he was a calculating knave.  His face was keen, but not cunning, and, moreover, there was a strange, almost boyish, sanguineness about it which brought Eddy forcibly to mind.  It was the face of a man who might dupe himself as well as others, and do it with generous enthusiasm and self-trust.  It was the face of a man who might have bitter awakenings, as well as his dupes, but who might take the same fatuous, happy leaps to disaster again.  And yet there was a certain strength, even nobility, in the face, and it was distinctly lovable, and in no weak sense.  He looked very like Eddy as he sat there, and, curiously enough, he spoke almost at once of him.

“I believe you were a friend of my son, Mr. Anderson,” he remarked, with his pleasant, compelling smile.

Anderson smiled in response.  “I believe I had that honor,” he replied.  Then he said something about his having gone, and how much his father must miss him.  “He is a fine little fellow,” he added, and was almost surprised at the expression of positive gratitude which came into Carroll’s eyes in response.  He spoke, however, with a kind of proud deprecation.

“Oh, well, he is a boy yet, of course,” he said, “but there is a man in him if fate doesn’t put too many stumbling-blocks in his way.”

“There is such a thing,” said Anderson.

“Undoubtedly,” said Carroll.  “Moral hurdles for the strengthening of the spirit are all very well, but occasionally there is a spirit ruined by them.”

“I think you are right,” said Anderson; “still, when the spirit does make the hurdles—­”

“Oh yes, it is a very superior sort, after that,” said Carroll, laughing; “but when it doesn’t—­ Well, I hope the boy will have tasks proportioned to his strength, and I hope he will have a try at them all, anyhow.”

“He seems to me like a boy that would,” Anderson said.  “What do you think of making of him?”

“I hardly know.  It depends.  His mother has always talked a good deal about Eddy’s studying law, but I don’t know.  Somehow the law has always seemed to me the road of success for the few and a slippery maze to nowhere for the many.”

A sudden thought seemed to strike Carroll; he looked a little disturbed.  “By-the-way,” he said, “I forgot.  You yourself—­”

Anderson smiled.  “Yes, I studied law,” said he.

“And gave it up?”

“Yes.  I could not make a living with it.”

Carroll regarded the other man with a curious, wistful scrutiny.  He looked more and more like Eddy.  His next question was as full of naivete as if the boy himself had asked it, and yet the charming, almost courtly state of the man never for one instant failed.  “And so,” he said, “you tried selling butter and eggs instead of legal wisdom?” The question might have been insolent from its purport, but it was not.