“I went a little wild in my Freshman year, and I got into that scrape, but I’ve never been the worse for liquor since; fact is, I never touch it now.  There isn’t any more reason why I should take to drink because I keep a hotel than Jackson; but just that one time has set mother against it, and I can’t seem to make her understand that once is enough for me.  Why, I should keep a temperance house, here, of course; you can’t do anything else in these days.  If I was left to choose between hotel-keeping and any other life that I know of, I’d choose it every time,” Jeff went on, after a moment of silence.  “I like a hotel.  You can be your own man from the start; the start’s made here, and I’ve helped to make it.  All you’ve got to do is to have common-sense in the hotel business, and you’re sure to succeed.  I believe I’ve got common-sense, and I believe I’ve got some ideas that I can work up into a great success.  The reason that most people fail in the hotel business is that they waste so much, and the landlord that wastes on his guests can’t treat them well.  It’s got so now that in the big city houses they can’t make anything on feeding people, and so they try to make it up on the rooms.  I should feed them well—­I believe I know how—­and I should make money on my table, as they do in Europe.

“I’ve thought a good many things out; my mind runs on it all the time; but I’m not going to bore you with it now.”

“Oh, not at all,” said Westover.  “I’d like to know what your ideas are.”

Well, some time I’ll tell you.  But look here, Mr. Westover, I wish if mother gets to talking about me with you that you’d let her know how I feel.  We can’t talk together, she and I, without quarrelling about it; but I guess you could put in a word that would show her I wasn’t quite a fool.  She thinks I’ve gone crazy from seeing the way they do things in Europe; that I’m conceited and unpatriotic, and I don’t know what all.”  Jeff laughed as if with an inner fondness for his mother’s wrong-headedness.

“And would you be willing to settle down here in the country for the rest of your life, and throw away your Harvard training on hotel-keeping?”

“What do the other fellows do with their Harvard training when they go into business, as nine-tenths of them do?  Business is business, whether you keep a hotel or import dry-goods or manufacture cotton or run a railroad or help a big trust to cheat legally.  Harvard has got to take a back seat when you get out of Harvard.  But you don’t suppose that keeping a summer hotel would mean living in the country the whole time, do you?  That’s the way mother does, but I shouldn’t.  It isn’t good for the hotel, even.  If I had such a place as Lion’s Head, I should put a man and his family into it for the winter to look after it, and I should go to town myself—­to Boston or New York, or I might go to London or Paris.  They’re not so far off, and it’s so easy to get to them that you can hardly keep away.”  Jeff laughed, and looked up at Westover from the log where he sat, whittling a pine stick; Westover sat on the stump from which the log had been felled eight or ten years before.