"He never has complained once, since he came here, and he kept his room as neat as if he had to take care of it himself." "Well," said the box-office oracle, "I guess he's O.K., if he is a bit stiff; and a fellow who's best man to a big New York swell, and gets his name in all the papers, doesn't belong in a seven-dollar, hash-seven-days-a-week, Bleecker Street boarding-house." Peter fitted his room up simply, the sole indulgence (if properly so called) being a bath, which is not a usual fitting of a New York business office, consciences not yet being tubbable.

He had made his mother show him how to make coffee, and he adopted the Continental system of meals, having rolls and butter sent in, and making a French breakfast in his own rooms.

Then he lunched regularly not far from his office, and dined wherever his afternoon walk, or evening plans carried him.

He found that he saved no money by the change, but he saved his feelings, and was far freer to come and go as he chose.
He did not hear from the honeymoon party.

Watts had promised to write to him and send his address "as soon as we decide whether we pass the winter in Italy or on the Nile." But no letter came.