you have nothing to do—not yet, anyhow.
Now, if I catch your meaning, your idea is to go back
to your life at home. In other words you want
to live the last end of your life first—and
without earning the right to it. And because
you cannot do this you give yourself up to criticising
everything about you. Getting only at the faults
and missing all the finer things in life. If
you would permit me to advise you—”
he still had his hand on the lad’s knee, searching
the soft brown eyes—“I would give
up finding fault and first try to better things, and
I would begin right here where you are. Some of
the great banking houses which keep the pendulum of
the world swinging true have grown to importance through
just such young men as yourself, who were honest and
had high ideals and who so impressed their own personalities
upon everybody about them—customers and
employers—that the tone of the concern was
raised at once and with it came a world-wide success.
I have been thirty years on the Street and have watched
the rise of half the firms about me, and in every
single instance some one of the younger men—boys,
many of them—has pulled the concern up
and out of a quagmire and stood it on its feet.
And the reverse is true: half the downfalls have
come from those same juniors, who thought they knew
some short road to success, which half the time was
across disreputable back lots. Why not give up
complaining and see what better things you can do?
I’m not quite satisfied about your having stayed
upstairs even to receive me. Your aunt loves
society and the daughter—what did you say
her name was—Corinne? Yes, Miss Corinne
being young, loves to have a good time. Listen!
do you hear?—there goes another waltz.
Now, as long as you do live here, why not join in
it too and help out the best you can?—and
if you have anything of your own to offer in the way
of good cheer, or thoughtfulness, or kindness, or
whatever you do have which they lack—or
rather what you think they lack—wouldn’t
it be wiser—wouldn’t it—if
you will permit me, my lad—be a little
better bred to contribute something of your
own excellence to the festivity?”
It was now Jack’s turn to lean back in his chair
and cover his face, but with two ashamed hands.
Not since his father’s death had any one talked
to him like this—never with so much tenderness
and truth and with every word meant for his good.
All his selfrighteousness, his silly conceit and vainglory
stood out before him. What an ass he had been.
What a coxcomb. What a boor, really.
“What would you have me do?” he asked,
a tone of complete surrender in his voice. The
portrait and Peter were one and the same! His
father had come to life.
“I don’t know yet. We’ll think
about that another time, but we won’t do it
now. I ought to be ashamed of myself for having
spoiled your evening by such serious talk (he wasn’t
ashamed—he had come for that very purpose).
Now show me some of your books and tell me what you
read, and what you love best.”