"What do you mean to do now?" asked Pryor.
"I shall stick it out. After all, I'm not looking for social or official favors. All I ask is to be allowed to do the best work of which I'm capable. Surely, I have that right."
"So you think," said Pryor drily. "But bear in mind that for every bona fide worker in New York, there are nine idlers or time wasters, nine breeders of noise, disorder and disease. And don't forget that the chief objection to the idler is not that he neglects his own work, but that he insists on interrupting or damaging yours. The doer is the waster's sworn enemy to all eternity. And the waster knows it! Therefore, he spies out your vulnerable spot: social, economic, psychic, whatever it be; and the first moment he catches you off guard, he sends his poisoned arrow straight to your Achilles' heel."
"I suppose I must take my chance of that. What else can I do?"
"You might imitate me."
"Imitate you! What do you mean?"
"Why, get married! I'm going to marry Charlotte Beecher."
"But I thought that Charlotte—"
"Yes, she's very fond of Robert Lloyd. And I'm only her second string. But bless your wayward curls, we're all second strings on somebody's violin! What's the odds—especially after the first string has snapped? I've been madly in love myself, twice before. Once, down south in Colon, with a dusky Isthmian beauty. The second time, with you."
"Don't be silly, Mark, or I shall stop envying Charlotte her extraordinary good luck."