He came back from the bank, the money in his pocket, and went up to the room directly, with some vague intention of writing to the proprietors of the apartment house at once.

But as he shut the door behind him, leaning his back against it and looking about, he suddenly realized that his old-time desire was passed; he had become so used to these surroundings that it now no longer made any difference to him whether or not they were cheerless, lamentable, barren.

It was like all his other little ambitions--he had lost the taste for them, nothing made much difference after all.

His money had come too late.
Why should he spend his five hundred dollars on something that could no longer amuse him?
It would be much wiser to spend it all in having a good time somewhere--champagne dinners with Flossie, or betting on the races--he did not know exactly what.

It was true that even these alternatives would not amuse him very much--he would fall back upon them as things of habit.