For a while, there was silence. Croyden turned away and began to dress; Macloud sat looking out on the lawn in front, where a foursome were playing the home hole, and another waiting until they got off the green. Presently, the latter spoke. "How did it happen, old man?" he asked--"that is, if you care to tell." Croyden laughed shortly. "It isn't pleasant to relate how one has been such an addle-pated ass----" "Then, forgive me.--I didn't mean to----" "Nonsense! I understand--moreover, it will ease my mortification to confide in one who won't attempt to sympathize. I don't care for sympathy, I don't deserve it, and what's more, I won't have it." "Don't let that worry you," Macloud answered. "You won't be oppressed by any rush of sympathy. No one is who gets pinched in the stock market. We all go in, and--sooner or later, generally sooner--we all get burnt--and we all think every one but ourselves got only what was due him. No, my boy, there is no sympathy running loose for the lamb who has been shorn. And you don't need to expect it from your friends of the Heights. They believe only in success. The moment you're fleeced, they fling you aside. They fatten off the carcasses of others--yours and mine and their own brothers. Friendship does not enter into the game. They will eat your bread and salt to-night, and dance on your financial corpse to-morrow. The only respect they have is for money, and clothes, and show; and the more money, and the more show the greater their deference--while they last--and the farther the fall when they fail. The women are as bad as the men, in a smaller way. They will blacken one another's reputation with an ease and zest that is simply appalling, and laugh in your face while doing it. I'm speaking generally, there are exceptions, of course, but they only prove the rule. Yet, what can you expect, where aristocracy is based on one's bank account, and the ability to keep the other fellows from laying violent hands on it. It reminds one of the Robbers of the Rhine! Steal everything within reach and give up nothing. Oh! it is a fine system of living!--Your pardon! I forgot myself." "It is good to have you forget yourself occasionally," said Croyden--"especially, when your views chime with mine--recently acquired, I admit. I began to see it about a month ago, when I slowed down on expenditures. I thought I could notice an answering chill in the grill-room." "Like enough. You must spend to get on. They have no use for one who doesn't. You have committed the unpardonable sin: had a fortune and lost it. And they never forgive--unless you make another fortune; then they will welcome you back, and lay plans to take it, also." "You paint a pretty picture!" Croyden laughed. Macloud shrugged his shoulders. "Tell me of Royster & Axtell," he said.