Lonnegan’s outbreak had set me to thinking. Lambert I knew only by reputation---as half the world knew him--a man of the people: lumber boss, mill owner, proprietor of countless acres of virgin forest; many times a millionaire. Then came New York and the ice-cream palace with the rock-candy columns on the Avenue, and “The Samuel Lamberts” in the society journals. This was all the wife’s doings. Poor Maria! She had forgotten the day when she washed his red flannel shirts and hung them on a line stretched from the door of their log cabin to a giant white pine--one of the founders of their fortune. If Tommy Wing called him “Sam” it was because old “Saw Logs,” as he was often called, was lonely, and Tommy amused him. Tommy Wing--Thomas Bowditch Wing, his card ran--I had known for years. He was basking on the topmost branches now, stretched out in the sunshine of social success, swaying to every movement made by his padrones. He was a little country squirrel when I first came across him, frisking about the root of the tree and glad enough to scamper close to the ground. He had climbed a long way since then. All the blossoms and tender little buds were at the top, and Tommy was fond of buds, especially when they bloomed out into yachts and four-in-hands, country houses, winters in Egypt (Tommy an invited guest), house parties on Long Island or at Tuxedo, or gala nights at the opera with seats in a first tier. In the ascent he had forgotten his beginnings--not an unnatural thing with Tommies: Son of a wine merchant--a most respectable man, too; then “Importer” (Tommy altered the sign); elected member of an athletic club; always well dressed, always polite;--invited to a member’s house to dine; was unobtrusive and careful not to make a break. Asked again to fill a place at the table at the last moment-accepted gracefully, not offended--never offended at anything. Was willing to see that the young son caught the train, or would meet the daughter at the ferry and escort her safely to school. “So obliging, so trustworthy,” the mother said. Soon got to be “among those present” at the Sherry and Delmonico balls. Then came little squibs in the society columns regarding the movements of Thomas Bowditch Wing, Esquire. He knew the squibber, and often gave her half a column. Was invited to a seat in the coaching parade, saw his photograph the next morning in the papers, he sitting next to the beautiful Miss Carnevelt. He was pretty near to the top now; only a little farther to where the choicest buds were bursting into flower; too far up, though, ever to recognize the little fellows he had left frisking below. There was no time now to escort school-girls or fill unexpectedly empty seats unless they were exclusive ones. His excuse was that he had accepted an invitation to the branch above him. The mother of the school-girl now, strange to say, instead of being miffed, liked him the better, and, for the first time, began to wonder whether she