“That was before the war,” resumed the original speaker. “Do you
imagine he could have attained his position as the foremost American
lawyer under conditions as they exist to-day without special
advantages?”
“Possibly,” I said, and added that it was probable that Mr. Choate, if
approached, would kindly throw light on the subject.
In pursuance of this idea, I called one evening at the residence of
Mr. Choate. Previous inquiry at the law office of Evarts, Choate and
Beaman, on Wall Street, elicited the information that Mr. Choate’s days
were filled to overflowing with legal affairs of great importance.
Consequently it was surprising to find him so ready to see a stranger
at his home.
It was into a long room on the ground floor that I was introduced,
three of its walls lined with tall, dark walnut book-laden cases,
lighted by a bright grate fire and by a student’s lamp on the table
by night, and by two heavily-shaded windows by day. As I entered,
the great lawyer was busy prodding the fire, and voiced a resonant
“good-evening” without turning. In a moment or two he had evoked a
blaze, and assumed a standing attitude before the fire, his hands
behind him.