"Once is too often. What do you want to become, a parlor celebrity? Society c'est l'ennemie. You ought to hate it."
"I do."
"Humph!" said Herkimer, eying him across his sputtering clay pipe. "Get this idea of people out of your head. Shut yourself up in a hole, work. What's society, anyhow? A lot of bored people who want you to amuse them. I don't approve. Better marry that pretty girl in the creamery. She'll worship you as a god, make you comfortable. That's all you need from the world."
"Marry her yourself; she'll sew and cook for you," said Rantoul, with perfect good humor.
"I'm in no danger," said Herkimer, curtly; "you are."
"What!"
"You'll see."
"Listen, you old grumbler," said Rantoul, seriously. "If I go into society, it is to see the hollowness of it all—"
"Yes, yes."
"To know what I rebel against—"