He had too much sense to attempt superficial work or to seek to build his fortunes on the slight foundation of mere smartness.  It was his plan to continue in business for a year or more and then enter the junior class of one of the city colleges.  By making the most of every moment and with the aid of a little private tutoring he believed he could do this, for he was a natural mathematician, and would find in the classics his chief difficulties.  At any rate it was his fixed resolve not to enter upon the study of the law proper until he had broadened his mind by considerable general culture.  Not only did his ambition prompt to this, but he felt that if he developed narrowly none would be so clearly aware of the fact as Mildred Jocelyn.  Although not a highly educated girl herself, he knew she had a well-bred woman’s nice perception of what constituted a cultivated man; he also knew that he had much prejudice to overcome, and that he must strike at its very root.

In the meantime poor Mildred, unconscious of all save his unwelcome regard, was seeking with almost desperate earnestness to gain practical knowledge of two humble arts, hoping to be prepared for the time—­now clearly foreseen and dreaded—­when her father might decline so far in mind and health as to fail them utterly, and even become a heavy burden.  She did not dream that his disease was a drug, and although some of his associates began to suspect as much, in spite of all his precautions, none felt called upon to suggest their suspicions to his family.

Causes that work steadily will sooner or later reach their legitimate results.  The opium inertia grew inevitably upon Mr. Jocelyn.  He disappointed the expectations of his employers to that degree that they felt that something was wrong, and his appearance and manner often puzzled them not a little even though with all the cunning which the habit engenders he sought to hide his weakness.

One day, late in November, an unexpected incident brought matters to a crisis.  An experienced medical acquaintance, while making a call upon the firm, caught sight of Mr. Jocelyn, and his practiced eye detected the trouble at once.

“That man is an opium-eater,” he said in a low tone, and his explanation of the effects of the drug was a diagnosis of Mr. Jocelyn’s symptoms and appearance.  The firm’s sympathy for a man seemingly in poor health was transformed into disgust and antipathy, since there is less popular toleration of this weakness than of drinking habits.  The very obscurity in which the vice is involved makes it seem all the more unnatural and repulsive, and it must be admitted that the fullest knowledge tends only to increase this horror and repugnance, even though pity is awakened for the wretched victim.