"I guess America has got me for life," he answered; "I'm only making a trip. And you? You're still at the Bar, eh?" "Oh, yes," said Heriot drily; "I'm still at the Bar." It is not agreeable, when you have succeeded in a profession, to be asked if you are in it still. "I've travelled along the lines on which you left me--it doesn't make an exciting narrative. Chambers, court, and bed. A laundress or two has died in the interval. The thing pays better than it used to do, naturally; that's all." "You're doing well?" "I should have called it 'doing well' once; but we are all Olivers in our hearts. To-day----" "Mistake!" said the elder man. "You wanted the Bar--you've got the Bar; you ought to be satisfied. Now _I_----" "Yes?" said Heriot, as he paused. "How's the world used you, Cheriton? By the way, you never answered my last letter, I think." "It was _you_ who didn't answer _me_." "I fancy not. You were going to Chicago, and I wrote----" "I wrote after I arrived in Chicago." "Well, it must be five years ago; we won't argue. What did you do in Chicago, Cheriton?" "No good, sir. I went there with a patent horse-collar. Capital invention--not my own, I never invented anything!--but it didn't catch on. They seemed to take no interest in horse-collars; no money in it, not a cent! After the horse-collar I started in the dry-goods trade; but I was burned out. From Chicago I went to Duluth; I've an hotel there to-day." "An hotel?" "That's so. It isn't a distinguished career, running a little hotel, but it's fairly easy. Compared with hustling with horse-collars it's luxurious. Duluth is not ideal, but what would you have! I make my way, and that's all I ask now. If I had my life over again----" He sighed. "If we could have our lives over again, eh, Heriot?" "Humph!" said Heriot doubtfully; he was wondering if he could make any better use of his own--if he would be any livelier the next time he was eight-and-thirty. "I suppose we all blunder, of course." "_You_ are a young man yet; it's different for you; and you're in the profession of your choice: it's entirely different. We don't look at the thing from the same standpoint, Heriot." "You don't mean that you regret giving up Art?" "Sir," said Cheriton mournfully, "it was the error I shall always regret. I wouldn't say as much to anybody else; I keep it here"--he tapped his velvet jacket--"but I had a gift, and I neglected it; I had power, and--and I run an hotel. When I reflect, man, there are hours--well, it's no use crying over spilt milk; but to think of the position I should have made, and to contrast it with what I am, is bitter!" He swept back his wavy hair impatiently, and in the momentary pose looked more like a celebrity still. Heriot could see that the cherished delusion gave him a melancholy pleasure, and was at a loss how to reply. "It was uphill work," he said at last. "Who can tell? Luck----"