Chief among his satisfactions had been that with which he had lately seen his mother--an exquisite woman, looking like the old lace and Roman mosaic pins which she had saved from the wreck of her fortune--set off for Europe in the exceptional company of her brother, Bishop Arthur Touchett, gentlest of dignitaries.

The bishop, only to look upon whose portrait was a benediction, had at sacrifice of certain of his charities seen St.George through college; and it made the million worth while to his nephew merely to send him to Tuebingen to set his soul at rest concerning the date of one of the canonical gospels.

Next to the rich delight of planning that voyage, St.
George placed the buying of his yacht.
In the dusty, inky office of the _New York Evening Sentinel_ he had been wont three months before to sit at a long green table fitting words about the yachts of others to the dreary music of his typewriter, the while vaguely conscious of a blur of eight telephone bells, and the sound of voices used merely to communicate thought and not to please the ear.

In the last three months he had sometimes remembered that black day when from his high window he had looked toward the harbour and glimpsed a trim craft of white and brass slipping to the river's mouth; whereupon he had been seized by such a passion to work hard and earn a white-and-brass craft of his own that the story which he was hurrying for the first edition was quite ruined.
"Good heavens, St.George," Chillingworth, the city editor, had gnarled, "we don't carry wooden type.

And nothing else would set up this wooden stuff of yours.