In his hours of solitude he led a very useless and meaningless existence. He did not paint much; and when he did, his occupation proved neither profitable nor enjoyable. He read a good many light novels; he spent a good deal of time seated at his studio window, gazing off across the tree-tops, and lapsing into a state of mental vacuity, that approached as near to total unconsciousness as is compatible with sustained animation. He even went to the theater now and then, escorting Tillie and her mother. To Mrs. Morgenthau he had taken a genuine liking. There was something so hearty and vigorous about her, something almost manly. His palate was dulled. He craved strong flavors. “They're going to the country before long, aren't they?” the rabbi asked one day. “Yes; the first week in July.” “Well, don't you think we ought to have them to dinner, before they go?” “That wouldn't be a bad idea,” confessed Elias. And on the following Sunday to dinner they all came; Mr. Koch expatiated in his oratorical style upon the charms of the Catskills; and the others unanimously joined him in urging Elias and the rabbi to “come along.” The rabbi replied that he positively couldn't. His professional duties were such as to compel him to remain in town. “But there's no reason why _you_ shouldn't,” he concluded, turning to his nephew; “and I think decidedly you'd better.” At this, they concentrated their fire upon Elias; and in the end, he said, well, perhaps he would run up for a week or two some time in August. But he did not wait till August. After they were gone, he found the city intolerably dull. What to do with himself, how to divert himself, where to seek a substitute for the excitement that they had afforded him, he did not know. He began to realize that he had grown very dependent upon their society; likewise, that he possessed but very few and feeble resources within himself. He did not like this. It damaged his self-esteem. But he could not deny it, he could not get the better of it. He craved the sound of their voices; he craved Tillie's music; he craved the exuberant friendliness with which they treated him. The idleness, the monotony, the insipidity, of his daily life in the city, he could not endure. In the copious leisure that it left him, he would sometimes--despite his customary inanition--he would sometimes fall to thinking; and when he thought, he did not admire himself; he even sluggishly despised himself; a sense of his uselessness bore in upon him; he was anxious to escape himself. So, toward the middle of July, he packed his trunk, and went to Tanners-town. He had said that he would run up for a week or two. But he did not return to New York until the others did so, early in September.