It recalled to Feilding some of his earlier days, when he was a student in Paris.

There had been a supper in Max's room that ended at daylight--no worse in its features than dozens of others in the Quartier--to which an intimate friend of the doctor's had been invited, and upon which, as Max heard afterward, the doctor had commented rather severely.
Max realized, therefore, but too well that the distinguished physician--known now over half the State--understood him, and his habits, and his kind as thoroughly as he did his own ease of instruments.

He realized, too, that there was nothing about his present appearance or surroundings or daily life that could lead so thoughtful a man of the world as Dr.John Cavendish, of Barnegat, to conclude that he had changed in any way for the better.
And yet this young gentleman could never have been accused of burning his candle at both ends.

He had no flagrant vices really--none whose posters were pasted on the victim's face.

Neither cards nor any other form of play interested him, nor did the wine tempt him when it was red--or of any other color, for that matter, nor did he haunt the dressing-rooms of chorus girls and favorites of the hour.