I may as well tell you. . . . An unintimate observer would have been puzzled to decide how much of Paul's misery was feigned. . . . I'm going to become a tutor, 'paspe.
A tutor! She smiled. A tutor! A guide to fast life! How to smoke opium in three lessons?
Not so bad for a guess, Paul grinned. He began to feel more comfortable. You've more or less hit it.
Who wants to learn?
That's the strange part. I answered an advertisement. It's here somewhere. . . .
He rose and fumbled about in an escritoire until he found the clipping.
What kind of jest is this? Campaspe's interest was not on the wane.
That's just what I thought. I went to see him . . . an old man, in earnest. It's his son, a milksop, I take it. I don't know. I've never seen him. He's coming in today. You've got to help. . . . Everybody's got to help. . . .
Teach him the vices?
I really don't know. It's all queer. The old fellow didn't tell me much. He asked questions. He seemed particularly pleased when he learned that my wife had supported me. That appeared to settle the matter for him.
But Amy doesn't any more. She even made a
