"But," he laughed, "I lost it before my teeth came and I could get a grip on it." "Do you mean to say," exclaimed Wilmer, "that you're not doing this for fun ?" "Fun ?" cried Paul.

"Fun?
Do you call this comic ?" He waved his hand comprehensively, indicating the decayed pink-and-purple wall-paper, the ragged oil-cloth on the floor, the dingy window with its dingier outlook, the rickety deal wash-stand with the paint peeling off, a horrible clothless tray on a horrible splotchy chest of drawers, containing the horrible scraggy remains of a meal.

"Do you think I would have this if I could command silken sloth?
I long like hell, old chap, for silken sloth, and if I could get it, you wouldn't see me here." Wilmer rose and stretched out his hand.

"I'm sorry, dear boy," said he.
"The wife and I thought it didn't very much matter to you.

We always thought you were a kind of young swell doing it for amusement and experience--and because you never put on side, we liked you." Paul rose from the bed and put his hand on Wilmer's shoulder.