completely alter his inherited flavor, at least radically compromise it. He had never before been so pressingly under the necessity of appraising his New England inheritance and deciding whether or not it was really precious to him. For four years he had been scoffing at it; but that was in New England, at close range to all the obviously irksome aspects of it. At the same time, in Boston, even in the rowdiest set he could imagine there, the fact of being the son of the Professor Thanet would give him prestige; in the rue Caumartin somebody would make an awful funny joke of it.
Trying anything once was a popular motto of his contemporaries. But the problem that faced him was this: would it be possible to dip into this pool and come out merely wet? What if one came out slightly dyed, forever? And if one did, what if one grew tired or ashamed of the tint? "You and your moral reactions and your grandmother's ducks!" he could hear Max Bruff scoffing.
A third cup of coffee didn't solve the problem; it merely heightened his nervous restlessness.
"What a horrible man!" exclaimed Madame, and for a moment Grover was startled. Then he realized that she was still thinking of the impassioned butcher, and he went to the kitchen for his shaving water.
There was still time to draw back, he reflected, as he selected his best clothes. If he failed to keep his appointment with Léon Vaudreuil, there would be no
