Moreover, he had entirely lost the power of speech, owing to a fear of making a fool of himself.  During the vacation in question he was reoutfitted and sent three times a week to the theater.  On one or two occasions I endeavored to ascertain how he liked school, but all I could get out of him was the vague admission that it was “all right” and that he liked it “well enough.”  This process of outgrowing his clothes and being put through a course of theaters at each vacation—­there was nothing else to do with him—­continued for seven years, during which time he grew to be six feet two inches in height and gradually filled out to man’s size.  He managed to hold a place in the lower third of his class, with the aid of constant and expensive tutoring in the summer vacations, and he finally was graduated with the rest and went to Harvard.

By this time he preferred to enjoy himself in his own way during his leisure and we saw less of him than ever.  But, whatever his intellectual achievements may be, there is no doubt as to his being a man of the world, entirely at ease anywhere, with perfect manners and all the social graces.  I do not think he was particularly dissipated at Harvard; on the other hand, I am assured by the dean that he was no student.  He “made” a select club early in his course and from that time was occupied, I suspect, in playing poker and bridge, discussing deep philosophical questions and acquiring the art of living.  He never went in for athletics; but by doing nothing in a highly artistic manner, and by dancing with the most startling agility, he became a prominent social figure and a headliner in college theatricals.

From his sophomore year he has been in constant demand for cotillions, house parties and yachting trips.  His intimate pals seem to be middle-aged millionaires who are known to me in only the most casual way; and he is a sort of gentleman-in-waiting—­I believe the accepted term is “pet cat”—­to several society women, for whom he devises new cotillion figures, arranges original after-dinner entertainments and makes himself generally useful.

Like my two daughters he has arrived—­absolutely; but, though we are members of the same learned profession, he is almost a stranger to me.  I had no difficulty in getting him a clerkship in a gilt-edged law firm immediately after he was admitted to the bar and he is apparently doing marvelously well, though what he can possibly know of law will always remain a mystery to me.  Yet he is already, at the age of twenty-eight, a director in three important concerns whose securities are listed on the stock exchange, and he spends a great deal of money, which he must gather somehow.  I know that his allowance cannot do much more than meet his accounts at the smart clubs to which he belongs.

He is a pleasant fellow and I enjoy the rare occasions when I catch a glimpse of him.  I do not think he has any conspicuous vices—­or virtues.  He has simply had sense enough to take advantage of his social opportunities and bids fair to be equally successful with myself.  He has really never done a stroke of work in his life, but has managed to make himself agreeable to those who could help him along.  I have no doubt those rich friends of his throw enough business in his way to net him ten or fifteen thousand dollars a year, but I should hesitate to retain him to defend me if I were arrested for speeding.