the success of a dinner depends upon the mood of
the diner!

Paul's income was uncertain; while he had written much, and traveled
much as a special correspondent, he had never regularly connected
himself with any journal, and he knew nothing of the routine of
office-work. Sometimes, I may say not infrequently, he could not write
at all; yet his pen was his only source of revenue, and often he was
without a copper to his credit. He was, therefore, constrained to dine
sumptuously with friends, when he would have found a solitary salad a
sweet alternative, and independence far more acceptable. The state of
the exchequer was very often alarming, and his predicament might have
cast a stronger man into the depths; but Paul could fast without
complaint, when necessary, for he had fasted often; and, to confess the
truth, he would much rather have fasted on and on, than parted with any
of the little souvenirs that made his surroundings charming in spite of
his privations. The friends who loved and fondled him were wont to send
messengers to his door with gifts of flowers, books, pictures and the
like, when soup-tickets would have been more serviceable, though by no
means more acceptable. It had happened to him more than once, that
having failed to break his fast--for he had a judicious horror of debt,
born of bitter experience--he received at a late hour as tokens of
sincere interest in his welfare, scarf pins, perfumery and scented soap;
or it may have been a silk handkerchief bearing the richly wrought
monogram of the happy but hungry recipient. At any rate these
testimonials of his popularity were never edible. Was this hard luck? He
went from one swell dinner to another, day after day, with never so much
as a crumb between meals. It of course made some difference to him--this
prolonged abstinence--but fortunately, or unfortunately, the effect upon
him mentally, morally and physically was hardly visible to the naked
eye.

He had a dress coat of the strictly correct type, which he had worn but
a few times; he had lectured in it; once or twice, he had recited poems
in it to the audiences of admiring lady friends. It was of no use to him
now, and he felt that he should never need it again. On the street below
him was a small shop, kept by the customary Israelite. Again and again,
Paul had noted the sun-faded frock-coat swinging from a hook over the
sidewalk in front of this shop; he had said, "I will take this coat to
him; it