"Did any man alive ever succeed beyond his dreams?
Why, I used to dream of being President, and I guess I shan't be President this side of the Great Divide, shall I?
But I made money, if that's what you mean.

Why, I have a million to-day to every dollar I had when I was twenty.

Do you mind my smoking?
I can't talk unless I've got hold of a cigar." While he struck a match, she noticed with surprise how very neat and orderly he was about the ashes of his cigars, which lay in an exact gray heap in the massive bronze ash-tray.

What a pity, she thought, moved by a feeling of compassion, that he had had no advantages! "I'll tell you how I got on," he pursued after a minute, leaning forward with the cigar in his hand--it was a good cigar, she knew from the smell of it.

"Do you see this room ?"--he glanced proudly about him--"do you know why I keep this place even when I am in the West ?" She shook her head, and he went on with a kind of half-ashamed, whimsical tenderness: "Well, a man lived here once you never heard of--a common Irishman--just a common Irish politician--the Tammany sort, just the sort the newspapers are so down on.