I saw that his father represented money, and, looking down at the worldly-wise scrap of a lad at my side, I realized what wealth and American civilization can do for the very young.
“Did I play cards?” he asked suddenly. “No? Perhaps his brother would teach me when he came. His brother played well.”
The end of the dinner interrupted our discussion of horses. It also interrupted the Man of the World in the act of storing away nuts and candies in his pocket. He was glad I liked riding.
“Perhaps,” he said, drawing my chair back for me (the Man of the World was a perfect gentleman—at times) “we can have a ride in the park together some day.”
Presently I found myself watching him as he conversed with my hostess’ daughter in the parlour. The round face was heavy when he was silent. When he talked, it lit up with precocious intelligence. He had a blasé air, as of one who is permanently weary of many things, and in his blue eyes I saw gleams of the knowledge of good and evil. The child was old,—as old as the serpent in the garden.
He was destined to much mortification that night. My mistake was repeated with emphasis by another boarder, an elderly gentleman in black.
He chucked the Man of the World under the chin when the latter rose politely to say, “Won’t you take my chair, sir?”
“Thank you, thank you, little boy,” said the old gentleman, “and who might you be?”
We all suffered for a moment. Then the child said,—
“I might be the Prince of Wales, but I am Morey Steiner.”