ngly to
himself as a physical incompetent. He had dismissed Buck Klinker as a
faintly amusing brother to the ox, and now Buck Klinker was giving him
valuable advice about his editorial work, to say nothing of jerking him
by the ears toward physical competency. He had thought to honor the
_Post_ by contributing of his wisdom to it, and the _Post_ had replied
by contemptuously kicking him out. He had laughed at Colonel Cowles's
editorials, and now he was staying out of bed of nights slavishly
struggling to imitate them. He had meant to give Miss Weyland some
expert advice some day about the running of her department, and suddenly
she had turned about and stamped him as an all-around failure, meet not
for reverence, but the laughter and pity of men.

So far as he knew, nobody in the world admired him. They might admire
his work, but him personally they felt sorry for or despised. Few even
admired his work. The _Post_ had given him satisfactory proof of that.
Conant, Willoughby, and Smathers would admire it--yes, wish to the Lord
that they had written it. But would that fill his cup to overflowing? By
the way, had not Fifi asked him that very question, too--whether he
would consider a life of that sort a successful life? Well--would he? Or
could it imaginably be said that Fifi, rather, had had a successful
life, as evidenced by her profoundly interesting funeral?

Was it possible that a great authority on human society could make
himself an even greater authority by personally assuming a part in the
society which he theoretically administered? Was it possible that he was
missing some factor of large importance by his addiction to isolation
and a schedule?

In short, was it conceivable that he had it all wrong from the
beginning, as the young lady Charles Weyland had said?

The little Doctor lay still on his bed and his precious minutes slipped
into hours.... If he finished his book at twenty-seven, what would he do
with the rest of his life? Besides defending it from possible criticism,
besides expounding and amplifying it a little further as need seemed to
be, there would be no more work for him to do. Supreme essence of
philosophy, history, and all science as it was, it was the final word of
human wisdom. You might say that with it the work of the world was done.
How then should he spend the remaining thirty or forty years of his
life? As matters stood now he had, so to say, twenty years start on
himself. Through the