He didn't meet Sylvia, but one day he saw Old Planter step from an automobile and enter the marble temple where he was accustomed to sacrifice corporations and people to the gods of his pocket-book. The great man used a heavy stick and climbed the steps rather slowly, flanked by obsequious underlings, gaped at by a crowd, buzzing and over-impressed. Somehow George couldn't fancy Blodgett with the gout--it was too delightfully bred. He peered in the automobile, but of course Sylvia wasn't there, nor, he gathered from his mother's occasional notes to thank him for the little money he could send her, was she much at Oakmont. "I'll see her this fall," he told himself, "and next winter. I've started to do what I said I would." As far as Wall Street was concerned, Blodgett evidently agreed with him. "I can put up with you next summer," he said at parting. "I'll write Mr. Alston you're fit for something besides football." Mundy displayed a pastoral sadness. "You ought to stay right here," he said. "College is all right if you don't want to amount to a hill of beans. It's rotten for making money." Nevertheless, he agreed to send George a weekly letter, giving his wise views as to what was going on among the money makers. They all made him feel that even in that rushing place his exit had caused a perceptible ripple. XXII The smallness, the untidiness, the pure joy of Squibs Bailly's study! The tutor ran his hands over George's muscles. "You're looking older and a good deal worn," he said, "but thank God you're still hard." Mrs. Bailly sat there, too. They were both anxious for his experiences, yet when he had told them everything he sensed a reservation in their praise. "I think I should turn my share of the laundry back," he said, defiantly. "I've something like three thousand dollars of my own now." "Does it make you feel very rich?" Mrs. Bailly asked. He laughed. "It's a tiny start, but I won't need half of it to get through the winter." Bailly lighted his pipe, stretched his legs, and pondered. "You're giving the laundry up," he said, finally, "because--because it savours of service?" George didn't get angry. He couldn't with Squibs in the first place; and, in the second, hadn't that thought been at the bottom of his mind ever since Dalrymple's remark about dirty hands? "I don't need it any more," he said, "and I'd like to have you dispose of it where it will do the most good." His voice hardened. "But to somebody who wants to climb, not to any wild-eyed fellow who thinks he sees salvation in pulling down." "You've just returned from the world," Bailly said, "and all you've brought is three thousand dollars and a bad complexion. I wish you'd directed your steps to a coal mine. You'd have come back richer." XXIII