"I fancy not. You were going to Chicago, and I wrote——"
"I wrote after I arrived in Chicago."
"Well, it must be five years ago; we won't argue. What did you do in Chicago, Cheriton?"
"No good, sir. I went there with a patent horse-collar. Capital invention—not my own, I never invented anything!—but it didn't catch on. They seemed to take no interest in horse-collars; no money in it, not a cent! After the horse-collar I started in the dry-goods trade; but I was burned out. From Chicago I went to Duluth; I've an hotel there to-day."
"An hotel?"
"That's so. It isn't a distinguished career, running a little hotel, but it's fairly easy. Compared with hustling with horse-collars it's luxurious. Duluth is not ideal, but what would you have! I make my way, and that's all I ask now. If I had my life over again——" He sighed. "If we could have our lives over again, eh, Heriot?"
"Humph!" said Heriot doubtfully; he was wondering if he could make any better use of his own—if he would be any livelier the next time he was eight-and-thirty. "I suppose we all blunder, of course."
"You are a young man yet; it's different for you; and you're in the profession of your choice: it's entirely different. We don't look at the thing from the same standpoint, Heriot."
"You don't mean that you regret giving up Art?"
"Sir," said Cheriton mournfully, "it was the error I shall always regret. I wouldn't say as much to anybody else; I keep it here"—he tapped his velvet jacket—"but I had a gift, and I neglected it; I had power, and—and I run an hotel. When I reflect, man, there are hours—well, it's no use crying over spilt milk; but to think of the position I should have made, and to contrast it with what I am, is bitter!" He swept back his wavy hair impatiently, and in the momentary pose looked more like a celebrity still.