Gurtleberry in bursting
into tears.
FATE
Rex Dillot was nearly twenty-four, almost good-looking and quite
penniless. His mother was supposed to make him some sort of an allowance
out of what her creditors allowed her, and Rex occasionally strayed into
the ranks of those who earn fitful salaries as secretaries or companions
to people who are unable to cope unaided with their correspondence or
their leisure. For a few months he had been assistant editor and
business manager of a paper devoted to fancy mice, but the devotion had
been all on one side, and the paper disappeared with a certain abruptness
from club reading-rooms and other haunts where it had made a gratuitous
appearance. Still, Rex lived with some air of comfort and well-being, as
one can live if one is born with a genius for that sort of thing, and a
kindly Providence usually arranged that his week-end invitations
coincided with the dates on which his one white dinner-waistcoat was in a
laundry-returned condition of dazzling cleanness. He played most games
badly, and was shrewd enough to recognise the fact, but he had developed
a marvellously accurate judgement in estimating the play and chances of
other people, whether in a golf match, billiard handicap, or croquet
tournament.
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