He was thirty-three, agreeable to look at, equipped with as much culture and intelligence as is tolerated east of Fifth Avenue and west of Madison.

He had a couple of elaborate rooms at the Lenox Club, a larger income than seemed to be good for him, and no profession.

It follows that he was a pessimist before breakfast.

Besides, it's a bad thing for a man at thirty-three to come to the conclusion that he has seen all the most attractive girls in the world and that they have been vastly overrated.

So, when a club servant with gilt buttons on his coat tails knocked at the door, the invitation to enter was not very cordial.