It was a few days after this that, during an hour passed with her again, he had expressed his impatience of the too flattering curiosity—­among the people he met—­about his appreciation of New York.  He had arrived at none at all that was socially producible, and as for that matter of his “thinking” (thinking the better or the worse of anything there) he was wholly taken up with one subject of thought.  It was mere vain egoism, and it was moreover, if she liked, a morbid obsession.  He found all things come back to the question of what he personally might have been, how he might have led his life and “turned out,” if he had not so, at the outset, given it up.  And confessing for the first time to the intensity within him of this absurd speculation—­which but proved also, no doubt, the habit of too selfishly thinking—­he affirmed the impotence there of any other source of interest, any other native appeal.  “What would it have made of me, what would it have made of me?  I keep for ever wondering, all idiotically; as if I could possibly know!  I see what it has made of dozens of others, those I meet, and it positively aches within me, to the point of exasperation, that it would have made something of me as well.  Only I can’t make out what, and the worry of it, the small rage of curiosity never to be satisfied, brings back what I remember to have felt, once or twice, after judging best, for reasons, to burn some important letter unopened.  I’ve been sorry, I’ve hated it—­I’ve never known what was in the letter.  You may, of course, say it’s a trifle—!”

“I don’t say it’s a trifle,” Miss Staverton gravely interrupted.

She was seated by her fire, and before her, on his feet and restless, he turned to and fro between this intensity of his idea and a fitful and unseeing inspection, through his single eye-glass, of the dear little old objects on her chimney-piece.  Her interruption made him for an instant look at her harder.  “I shouldn’t care if you did!” he laughed, however; “and it’s only a figure, at any rate, for the way I now feel. Not to have followed my perverse young course—­and almost in the teeth of my father’s curse, as I may say; not to have kept it up, so, ‘over there,’ from that day to this, without a doubt or a pang; not, above all, to have liked it, to have loved it, so much, loved it, no doubt, with such an abysmal conceit of my own preference; some variation from that, I say, must have produced some different effect for my life and for my ‘form.’  I should have stuck here—­if it had been possible; and I was too young, at twenty-three, to judge, pour deux sous, whether it were possible.  If I had waited I might have seen it was, and then I might have been, by staying here, something nearer to one of these types who have been hammered so hard and made so keen by their conditions.  It isn’t that I admire them so much—­the question of any charm in them, or of any charm, beyond