"Well," began Blake, placing finger ends to finger ends, judicially. "In the first place, you're ambitious. You like the plaudits of the populace. You see here a chance to get about a million per cent on your investment. Whereby you stick two months time and a little effort into the proposition and draw down a position that means sitting beside the chief executive and trying to look as though you knew what he was talking about. Also a chance to live in Washington and cut figure eights in the diplomatic circles. All of which is perfectly natural, nothing at all to your discredit, and furthermore shows whence come the few good men, who, sticking their heels in, are trying to keep the country from going to the demnition bow-wows. Am I right?" Schuyler watched a little ring of blue smoke rising to the ceiling. "No," he answered, slowly, "you're wrong. I care nothing for the plaudits of the populace. I'm ambitious, in a way; but when that way requires me to leave the people--the things--that I love, then ambition chameleonizes and I become ambitious antithetically. Furthermore, I loathe the climate of Washington; and all the society I want, I can find right in my home-- with the exception of yourself." "Which is not so much of an exception, after all," commented Blake; "because, when it comes to sticking around, I'm the original young Mr. Glue." "You know, Tom," went on Schuyler, "I don't like to take any chances with a happiness such as mine.... I wonder, sometimes, if I really know how happy I am. One can get used to happiness, you know, just as to other things--except unhappiness." "Hum," snorted Blake. "I've got used to that, even. Dad--burn it all, nothing ever goes right with me--except money; and that's no good without the rest. Money is merely an agreeable accessory. To have money and nothing with it is like having an olive and no cocktail to put it in. If I eat what I like, I get sick. I'm always either forty pounds too heavy or twenty pounds too light. I'm continually dieting or training and wondering why in Sam Hill I'm doing either. I have to live alone--to spend my evening at theatres or clubs--I am a man who would willingly give up all his clubs for one large pair of pink carpet slippers, and the theatres for a corpulent, aristocratic Maltese cat, with a baritone purr." Schuyler, immersed in his own thoughts, had not been listening. Blake eyed him, whimsically. "Ain't I the gabby thing, though?" he remarked, at length. And then: "A couple of million dollars for your thoughts, sweet chuck." "I was thinking how near I came to turning this all down--and how I'm sort of sorry that I didn't." "Nell's better, isn't she?" queried Blake, suddenly. "Better, yes; but not out of danger. Why?" "Why," returned Blake, "it just occurred to me--see here, old man, I've nothing much to do. Can't I stick around here? And then you can take Kate and Muriel with you."