s heels as deeply as he could. His later plans failed, and there came
a time when his strait was sore indeed--the time when he had not even
the money with which to meet the current expenses of a modest life. To
one vulgar or dishonest this is bad; to one cultivated and honorable it
is far worse. George Henry chanced to come under the latter
classification, and so it was that to him poverty assumed a phase
especially acute, and affected him both physically and mentally.

His first experience was bitter. He had never been an extravagant man,
but he liked to be well dressed, and had remained so for a time after
his business plans had failed. He was not a gormand, but he had
continued to live well. Now, with almost nothing left to live upon, he
must go shabby, and cease to tickle his too fastidious palate. He must
buy nothing new to wear, and must live at the cheapest of the
restaurants. He felt a sort of Spartan satisfaction when this resolve
had been fairly reached, but no enthusiasm. It required great resolution
on his part when, for the first time, he entered a restaurant the sign
in front of which bore the more or less alluring legend, "Meals fifteen
cents."

George Henry loved cleanliness, and the round table at which he found a
seat bore a cloth dappled in various ways. His sense of smell was
delicate, and here came to him from the kitchen, separated from the
dining-room by only a thin partition, a combination of odors, partly
vegetable, partly flesh and fish, which gave him a new sensation. A
faintness came upon him, and he envied those eating at other tables.
They had no qualms; upon their faces was the hue of health, and they
were eating as heartily as the creatures of the field or forest do, and
with as little prejudice against surroundings. George Henry tried to
philosophize again and to be like these people, but he failed. He noted
before him on the table a jar of that abject stuff called carelessly
either "French" or "German" mustard, stale and crusted, and remembered
that once at a dinner he had declared that the best test of a gentleman,
of one who knew how to live, was to learn whether he used pure,
wholesome English mustard or one of these mixed abominations. His ears
felt pounding into them a whirlwind of street talk larded with slang. He
ordered sparingly. He did not like it when the waiter, with a yell,
translated his modest order of fried eggs and coffee into "Fried,
turned," and "Draw one," and he li