was straight, but rather too long, as is generally the case with melancholy people; and the thin, dark moustache did not conceal the scornful expression of the mouth. The chin would have been the better for a little more weight and prominence, and the whole face might have been more attractive had it been less dark and thin. As for the rest, the man was tall and well built, though somewhat too lean and angular, and he carried himself well, whether in motion or repose. He was evidently melancholic, nervous, and impressionable, as might be seen from his brown and sinewy hands, of which the smooth and pointed fingers contrasted oddly with the strength of the lower part. But the most minute description of George Wood’s physical characteristics would convey no such impression as he produced upon those who first saw him. He was discontented with himself as well as with his surroundings, and his temper was clouded by perpetual disappointment. Sometimes dull and apathetic, there were moments when a vicious energy gleamed in his dark eyes, and when he looked like what fighting men call an ugly customer. Mirth was never natural to him, and when he laughed aloud there was scarcely the semblance of a smile upon his features. Yet he had a keen sense of humour, and a facility for exhibiting the ridiculous side of things to others.
“What do you do, Mr. Wood?” asked Constance Fearing, when he was seated beside her.
“Nothing—and not even that gracefully.”
Constance did not laugh as she looked at him, for there was something at once earnest and bitter in the way he spoke.
“Why do you do nothing?” she asked. “Everybody works nowadays. You do not look like a professed idler. I suppose you mean that you are studying for a profession.”
“Not exactly. I believe my studies are said to be finished. I sometimes write a little.”
“Is that all? Do you never publish anything?”
“Oh yes; countless things.”
“Really? I am afraid I cannot remember seeing——”
“My name in print? No. There is but one copy of my published works, and that is in my possession. The pages present an irregular appearance and smell of paste. You do not understand? My valuable performances are occasionally printed in one of the daily papers. I cut them out, when I am not too lazy, and keep them in a scrap-book.”
“Then you are a journalist?”
“Not from the journalist’s point of view. He calls me a paid contributor; and when I am worse paid than usual, I call him by worse names.”
“I do not understand—if you can be what you call a paid contributor, why not be a journalist? What is the difference?”
“The one is a professional, the other is an amateur. I am the other.”
“Why not be a professional, then?”
“Because I do not like the profession.”
“What would you like to be? Surely you must have some ambition.”
“None whatever, I assure you.” There was an odd look in George’s eyes, not altogether in accordance with his answer. “I should prefer to live a student’s life, since I must live a life of some kind. I should like to be always my own master—if you would give me my choice, there are plenty of things I should like. But I cannot have them.”
“Most of us are in that condition,” said Constance, rather thoughtfully.
“Are we? Is there anything in the world that you want and cannot have?”
“Yes. Many things.”
“No, I mean concrete things,” George insisted. “Of course I know that you have the correct number of moral and intellectual aspirations. You would like to be a heroine, a saint, and the managing partner of a great charity; you would like to be a scholar, historian, a novelist, and you would certainly like to be a great poetess. You would probably like to lead the fashion in some particular way, for I must allow you a little vanity with so much virtue, but on Sundays, in church, you would like to forget that there are such things as fashions. Of course you would. But all that is not what I mean. When I speak of wants, I mean wants connected with real life. Have you not everything you desire, or could you not have everything? If you do not like New York, can you not go and live in Siberia? If you do not like your house, can you not turn it inside out and upside down and trim it with green parakeet’s wings, if you please? If you have wants, they are moral and intellectual.”
“But all the things you speak of merely depend upon money,” said Constance a little shyly. “They are merely material wants—or rather, according to your description, caprices.”
“I do not call my desire to lead the unmolested life of a student either a caprice or a material want, but the accomplishment of my wish depends largely upon money and very little upon anything else.”
Constance looked furtively at her companion, who sat beside her with folded hands, apparently contemplating his shoes. He had spoken very quietly, but his tone was that of the most profound contempt, whether for himself, or for the wealth he was weak enough to desire, it was impossible to say. Constance felt that she was in the presence of a nature she did not understand, though she was to some extent interested and attracted by it. It is very hard for people who possess everything that money can give, and have always possessed it, to comprehend the effect of poverty upon a sensitive person. Constance, indeed, had no exact idea of George Wood’s financial position. He might be really poor, for all she knew, or he might be only relatively impecunious. She inclined to the latter theory, partly because he had not the indescribable look which is supposed to belong to a poor man, and partly on account of his readiness to speak of what he wanted. A person of less keen intuitions would probably have been repelled by what might have been taken for vulgar discontent and covetousness. But Constance Fearing’s inceptions were more delicate. She felt instinctively that George was not what he represented himself to be, that he was neither weak, selfish, nor idle, and that those who believed him to be so would before long find themselves mistaken. She made no answer to his last words, however, and there was silence for a few moments.
Then George began to speak of her return to New York, and fell into a very commonplace kind of conversation, which he sustained with an effort, and with a certain sensation of awkwardness. Presently Totty, who had finished the second edition of her small talk, rose from her seat and began the long operation of leave-taking, which was performed with all the usual repetitions, effusive phrases, and affectionalities, if such a word may be coined, which are considered appropriate and indispensable. As a canary bird pecks at a cherry, chirps, skips away, hops back, pecks, chirps, and skips again and again many times, so do certain women say good-bye to the dear friends they visit. Meanwhile George stood at hand, holding his hat and ready to go.
“I hope we shall see you again,” said Constance as she gave him her hand.
“May I come?” he asked.
“Of course. We are generally at home about this time.”
At last Totty tore herself away, and the ponderous front door closed behind her and her cousin as they came out into the purple light that flooded Washington Square.
“Well, George, I hope you were properly impressed,” said Mrs. Sherrington Trimm, when they had walked a few steps and were near the corner of the avenue.
“Profoundly.”
“In what way? Come, be confidential.”
“In
