“You don’t think I’d try it again. Never!... I’ve been a fool, and a rotten fool.... I fooled myself into thinking one could do this kind of thing and not be wrong. I got it into my head that our ideas of morals in America were old-fashioned and narrow and absurd, and that the French were right.” “Of course you’d have to philosophize about it.” “Well, I’m through now. I’ve got what was coming to me—and right on top of it there was a letter from mother.” “I’ll bet I know the kind. I’ve stayed at your house, you know.” “Do you think—” Ken bit his lips and stopped. “No, and I’m not going to. I’m satisfied. What’s the use wasting energy thinking when it doesn’t earn you anything? You got a jolt and a sermon, and between them they’ve given you a mental twister.... After we’ve walked down to the office you’ll feel better, son.... Get up before I haul you out.” Kendall got heavily out of bed while Bert returned to his own room to dress. When one is Kendall Ware’s age the morning should be the pleasantest part of the day, and usually it is so. One does not arise weary and irritable, but joyously, looking forward to the day that is coming.... This morning Ken left his bed like a man of sixty whose digestion has become the primary consideration of his life, and who is not fit to enter human society before noon. He had not slept well, his head was heavy—and he despised himself. At any rate, he fancied he despised himself, which makes for the same result. There was the sharp grief of youth as well, and one does not wisely who belittles the griefs of youth. It seems to be true that the energies which make youth wonderful give of their strength to the pain that youth can feel.... Now he was certain he had loved Andree and he had never experienced anything that compared with the distress and chagrin at his discovery that he had loved an unworthy object. He had idealized Andree, had made of her something more than human, something above the laws of humanity, mystic, of the stuff of which fairies are made, and she had been proved dross and himself a self-deluded fool.... He was bitter against himself and her. His thoughts made him well worthy to accept a high place in the company of those who gathered in the vestibule of his church at home.... He approached the table without appetite, and Arlette, when she brought in the pitcher of chocolate, eyed him sidewise and askance, and waddled out, shaking her head uneasily. He could hear her muttering to herself, and it annoyed him, because he knew she was troubled about him. Bert had chosen to leave him alone and to let the thing run its course, so the breakfast was a silent one. They put on their overseas caps and descended the stairs without a word. In the passageway the _concierge_ was waiting for them with the friendly smile which had always made his returnings to the apartment seem more like homecomings. She rested on her broom and wished them good morning.