He had won at last and carried off his winnings; and now what was he to do with them?
He was a man to whom, sooner or later, the question was sure to present itself, and the answer to it belongs to our story.

A vague sense that more answers were possible than his philosophy had hitherto dreamt of had already taken possession of him, and it seemed softly and agreeably to deepen as he lounged in this brilliant corner of Paris with his friend.
"I must confess," he presently went on, "that here I don't feel at all smart.

My remarkable talents seem of no use.

I feel as simple as a little child, and a little child might take me by the hand and lead me about." "Oh, I'll be your little child," said Tristram, jovially; "I'll take you by the hand.

Trust yourself to me." "I am a good worker," Newman continued, "but I rather think I am a poor loafer.