aintance had no more attachment to the main social structure of life
than a floating island of moss and flowers has to the system of
geological strata. It was Bland himself who took the first step in the
direction of closer association.

"Well, how are you getting on?"

He asked the question while slipping into the seat opposite Chip as the
latter lunched at the club, where they met most frequently.

"Oh, so so."

"H'm. So so. _That's_ what you call it."

The tone implied reproach or reproof or expostulation. Chip kept his
eyes on his knife and fork.

"Well, what do _you_ call it?"

"Oh, I'm not obliged to give it a name. I hear other people do that."

"And what do other people say--since you seem to want me to ask the
question?"

"I do. I think you ought to know. They say it's a pity."

Chip took on the defiant air of a bad boy. "They can say it--and go to
blazes."

"They'll say it, all right. Don't you worry about that. But I rather
think that you'll do the going to blazes--at this rate."

Chip raised his haggard eyes. "Well, why not? What is there any better
than blazes for me to go to? Besides, it isn't so awful--when you've got
nothing else."

"Oh, rot, Walker! I'm ashamed of you. I can imagine a man of your type
doing almost anything else but taking to drink."

Chip shrugged his shoulders with the habit acquired in French schools.
"On fait ce que l'on peut. I had three resources left to me--wine,
woman, and song. For song I've no ear; for woman--well, that's all over;
so it came down to Hobson's choice."

"Hobson's choice be blowed! Walker's choice! And you've just time enough
left to cast about for a set of alternatives. Why, I've seen scores of
men in your fix; and of some of them it was the salvation."

"And what was it of the others?"

"Hell. But it was a hell of their own making."

"All right. I'm willing to accept the word. It's a hell of _my_ own
making--but it's hell, just the same."

"But, good Lord! man, even if it is hell, you don't want to wallow in
it."

Chip smiled ruefully. "Oh, I like it. Kind of penance. I like it as
medieval sinners used to like a hair shirt."

"Yes; but the hair shirt was kept out of sight. You're parading your
penance, as you call it, before the world. See here, Walker, why don't
you come up and spend the weekend with me in New Hampshire? My wife
would like to have you. To-day is Friday, and I go up to-morrow morning.
A Sunday in the country would do