self. They
hadn't involved his wife. He hadn't married Anna to drag her down to
this. It would stand them in a social pillory, targets for those who
had either admired them or envied them. It would make them the most
conspicuous pair in the whole community: older people would point to
them as an illustration of justice visited on blind youth, and would
chuckle to observe Henry in the process of receiving his come-uppance:
the younger set would quake with merriment and poor jokes and sly
allusions to Henry's ancient grandeur. Even Bob Standish would have to
hide his amusement; why, Bob himself had made society and success his
fetiches. And Anna--Anna who was so ambitious for him--how could _she_
endure the status of a cheap showman's wife?

And even if she had been willing to ally himself with such a
business, how could he conceivably make ten thousand dollars out of
it in a single year? Ten? It would take a genius to make five. An
inexperienced man, with luck, might make two or three. He couldn't
afford to hire a trained man to manage it for him: the place was too
small to support such a man, and still to net any appreciable
profit. Mr. Starkweather had undoubtedly foreseen this very
fact--foreseen that Henry couldn't sit back as a magnate, and pile
responsibility on a paid employe. To reach his quota, Henry would
have to get in all over, and act as his own manager, and take the
resulting publicity and the social isolation. But the business was
impossible, the quota was impossible, the entire project from first
to last was unthinkable. His uncle, whether by accident or design,
had virtually disowned him. There was no other answer.

His laugh came back to him, but there was no hilarity in it. It was
merely an expression of his helplessness; it was tragedy turned inside
out. Yet he felt no resentment towards his uncle, but rather an
overwhelming pity. He felt no resentment towards his friend Standish,
who had bought out the perfectly respectable business which Mr.
Starkweather might so easily have left to Henry. Mr. Starkweather had
schemed to bring about a certain reaction, and he had overplayed his
hand. Instead of firing Henry with a new ardour for success, he had
convinced him of the futility of endeavour. He had set a standard so
high, and chosen a medium so low, that he had defeated his own
object.

The next step--why, it was to chart his life all over again. It was to
dispose of this ridiculous property, and be