CHAPTER VI.

Among the compensations of advancing age is a wholesome pessimism, which, though it takes

the fine edge off of whatever triumphs, may come to us, has the admirable effect of preventing

fate from working off on us any of those gold bricks.

Coins with strings attached and unhatched chickens, at which ardent youth snatches with

such enthusiasm to its subsequent disappointment.

As we emerge from the twenties, we grow into a habit of mind that looks as scant at fate

bearing gifts.

We miss, perhaps, the occasional prize, but we also avoid leaping light heartedly into

traps.

Ash-Marson had yet to reach the age of tranquil mistrust, and when fate seemed to be treating

him kindly, he was still young enough to accept such kindnesses on their face-value, and

rejoice at them.

As he sat on his bed at the end of his first night in castle-blendings, he was conscious

to a remarkable degree that fortune was treating him well.

He had survived, not merely without discredit, but with positive triumph, the initiatory plunge

into the etiquette maelstrom of life below stairs.

So far from doing the wrong thing, and drawing down on himself the just scorn of the steward's

room, he had been the life and soul of the party.

Even if tomorrow, in an absent-minded fit, he should anticipate the groom of the chambers

in the march to the table, he would be forgiven for the humorist has his privileges.

So much for that.

...