The Man of the World (I shall introduce my friends in the order in which
I met them; it is not artistic, but neither is life)—the Man of the
World was fourteen years old.
I made his acquaintance in this wise.
One night I went down early to dinner. As I waited in the parlour for
the bell to ring, a portière was drawn, and there entered what I
supposed to be a little boy. He was so short, chubby, and round-faced
that at first sight he looked younger than he was. I bent over, saying
graciously as I held out my hand,—
“I wonder if you will tell me your name?”
When he looked up I realized what I had done. Evidently a mistaken world
was in the habit of confusing smallness of stature with lack of
experience.
“I beg your pardon?” was all he said, but the touch of dignity in the
childish petulance of his tone rebuked me. That was the last time I ever
patronized Morey Steiner.
The chill in the atmosphere was not dispelled even when he was formally
presented to me by our hostess.
At dinner the Man of the World and I sat side by side. It was not until
I asked him if he cared for Jefferson’s Rip Van Winkle that my disgrace
was retrieved. Dramatic criticism was the child’s strong point,—one of
his strong points.
He told me that he thought Rip Van Winkle rather amusing. Then he asked
me if I did not consider the knife-whetting business in Irving’s Shylock
rather stagey. The part that he cared for most of all was Mr.
Mansfield’s Beau Brummell.
Yes, he went to the theatre a great deal, sometimes with his father or
his sisters, sometimes alone. That was his father, those were his
sisters. His mother was dead. The family had just come to the city, and
they were going to stay at this place until they found a house to live
in.
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.”