“Men like you—­” how Archer had glowed at the phrase!  How eagerly he had risen up at the call!  It was an echo of Ned Winsett’s old appeal to roll his sleeves up and get down into the muck; but spoken by a man who set the example of the gesture, and whose summons to follow him was irresistible.

Archer, as he looked back, was not sure that men like himself were what his country needed, at least in the active service to which Theodore Roosevelt had pointed; in fact, there was reason to think it did not, for after a year in the State Assembly he had not been re-elected, and had dropped back thankfully into obscure if useful municipal work, and from that again to the writing of occasional articles in one of the reforming weeklies that were trying to shake the country out of its apathy.  It was little enough to look back on; but when he remembered to what the young men of his generation and his set had looked forward—­the narrow groove of money-making, sport and society to which their vision had been limited—­even his small contribution to the new state of things seemed to count, as each brick counts in a well-built wall.  He had done little in public life; he would always be by nature a contemplative and a dilettante; but he had had high things to contemplate, great things to delight in; and one great man’s friendship to be his strength and pride.

He had been, in short, what people were beginning to call “a good citizen.”  In New York, for many years past, every new movement, philanthropic, municipal or artistic, had taken account of his opinion and wanted his name.  People said:  “Ask Archer” when there was a question of starting the first school for crippled children, reorganising the Museum of Art, founding the Grolier Club, inaugurating the new Library, or getting up a new society of chamber music.  His days were full, and they were filled decently.  He supposed it was all a man ought to ask.

Something he knew he had missed:  the flower of life.  But he thought of it now as a thing so unattainable and improbable that to have repined would have been like despairing because one had not drawn the first prize in a lottery.  There were a hundred million tickets in his lottery, and there was only one prize; the chances had been too decidedly against him.  When he thought of Ellen Olenska it was abstractly, serenely, as one might think of some imaginary beloved in a book or a picture:  she had become the composite vision of all that he had missed.  That vision, faint and tenuous as it was, had kept him from thinking of other women.  He had been what was called a faithful husband; and when May had suddenly died—­carried off by the infectious pneumonia through which she had nursed their youngest child—­he had honestly mourned her.  Their long years together had shown him that it did not so much matter if marriage was a dull duty, as long as it kept the dignity of a duty:  lapsing from that, it became a mere battle of ugly appetites.  Looking about him, he honoured his own past, and mourned for it.  After all, there was good in the old ways.