“Takes all the sauce out of life, young man,” answered Deleglise. “What interest is there in running a race with the prize already in your possession, tell me that?”
“It is not that kind of fortune,” I answered, “it is another. I have had my first story accepted. It is in print. Look.”
I handed him the paper. He spread it out upon the engraving board before him.
“Ah, that's better,” he said, “that's better. Charlie,” he turned to the red-headed man, who had seated himself listlessly in the one easy-chair the room contained, “come here.”
The red-headed man rose and wandered towards us. “Let me introduce you to Mr. Paul Kelver, our new fellow servant. Our lady has accepted him. He has just been elected; his first story is in print.”
The red-haired man stretched out his long thin hand. “I have thirty years of fame,” said the red-haired man—“could I say world-wide?”
He turned for confirmation to old Deleglise, who laughed. “I think you can.”
“If I could give it you would you exchange with me—at this moment?”
“You would be a fool if you did,” he went on. “One's first success, one's first victory! It is the lover's first kiss. Fortune grows old and wrinkled, frowns more often than she smiles. We become indifferent to her, quarrel with her, make it up again. But the joy of her first kiss after the long wooing! Burn it into your memory, my young friend, that it may live with you always!”
He strolled away. Old Deleglise took up the parable.