“I hope, Herbert,” said the elder brother, mildly, “that you will never sink so low as to write a New York Society novel; but that is surely what you will come to if you abandon yourself to the pernicious habit of attending afternoon teas. Do you remember your old playfellow, Walter Weakfish? It is only three years since he began to sip tea at kettledrums. At that time he was considered one of the very best reporters in the city, while at the poker table he commanded universal respect. You know, of course, that his downward career has been very rapid since his first fall, and that he has sounded every depth of ignominy and shame; but do you know where he is now?” “I heard some time ago,” replied Herbert, “that he had become an habitual frequenter of the most exclusive musical circles in Boston, and that--” “No,” interrupted the elder; “that was a malicious report. It is true that he once attended an organ recital, but that was all. At present he is conducting, over his own signature, a department entitled ‘Old Uncle Squaretoes’s Half-hour Chats with the Little Folks,’ in a Philadelphia paper.” “Merciful heavens!” cried Herbert; “I had no idea it was as bad as that; but can nothing be done to save him?” “I fear not,” replied the elder brother, sadly; “and now, Herbert, I shall say no more. You must choose your own course; but remember that our poker club meets to-night in the room over Cassidy’s Exchange, and you must--” “Yes, and drop another double X,” exclaimed Herbert, bitterly. “And learn the great lesson of life,” said John, “that in this vale of tears the hand that shapes our destiny will ofttimes beat three of a kind.” And with these impressive words John Dovetail departed, leaving his brother still twirling the engraved card between his fingers and hesitating. “Pshaw!” he exclaimed at last, “I don’t care what John says. I’m sick of his preaching, anyhow; and besides I’m not going to get the Society habit fastened on me through just one kettledrum! I’ll go there just to see what it’s like.” * * * * * That afternoon Herbert tasted of the forbidden intoxicant of feminine flattery, drank five cups of tea, and ate four pieces of sticky cake. He was introduced to a leader of the Chromo Literary Set, who told him that she “adored clever men,” and begged him to come to her next Sunday evening reception. Then he allowed himself to be patronized by a dude who copied letters in a broker’s office by day and led the cotillion by night; and he had not been in the drawing-room half an hour before his mind became affected by the “Society talk” going on about him to such a degree that he found himself chuckling in a knowing manner at an idiotic story about Ollie Winkletree, of the Simian Club. It was at this moment that the warning words of his brother John suddenly came back to him, and he realized that it was time to go.