"Confound the money!" he said impatiently. "I wish to thunder the Governor had left it to some orphan asylum or to found a Chair in Choctaw at some New England university, instead of to me--then I might have made something of myself. Here am I twenty-seven years old and all the fame I ever got came from leading cotillions at Newport, and my sole contribution to the common weal has consisted of the fines I've paid into the public treasury for exceeding the speed limit. Life! I've seen a lot of it--haven't I, in this empty social shell I've been born into!" He paused for a moment and poured a stiff four fingers of whisky into a glass at his side. "Bah!" he shuddered as the odor of it greeted his nostrils. "You're a poor kind of fuel for such an engine as I might have been if I'd been started on the right track. By Jove! Ethel is right. What good am I? What have I ever done to make myself worth while or to show that I have any character in me that is a jot better than that of any of the rest of our poor stenciled, gold-plated society." He looked at the glass and made a wry face. "I'll cut _you_ out anyhow," he said, pushing the liquor away from him. "That's something. Niki!" he called. The inscrutable Niki obeyed the summons on the word. "Take that stuff away and hereafter don't bring it unless I call for it," said Van Buren. "Any letters?" "One," said Niki. "A messenger brought him at eight o'clock. I get it." Niki went to the escritoire and picked up the little square of blue envelope lying thereon and handed it to Van Buren. "Thank you, Niki. You may go now--I can get along without you until--well, say noon to-morrow. Good night." "Good night," said Niki, and withdrew noiselessly. "Humph!" ejaculated Van Buren. "Even he is worth more to the world than I am. He does something, even if it is only for me, which is more than I can do. I don't seem to be able to do anything even for myself." With a sigh of discontent, Van Buren poked the fire for moment and then settled himself in the armchair, holding the letter before his eyes as he did so. "From Ethel," he said. "Probably my death-warrant. Oh, well--why not? If she won't have me, she won't, that's all. Only one more drop of bitters in my cocktail. I may as well read it anyhow. It's like a cold plunge, and I hate to take it, but--here goes." He tore open the envelope and, extracting the note, read it: