Kirk Winfield was an amiable, if rather weak, young man with whom life,for twenty-five years, had dealt kindly. He had perfect health, anincome more than sufficient for his needs, a profession whichinterested without monopolizing him, a thoroughly contenteddisposition, and the happy knack of surrounding himself with friends.

　　That he had to contribute to the support of the majority of thesefriends might have seemed a drawback to some men. Kirk did not objectto it in the least. He had enough money to meet their needs, and, beinga sociable person who enjoyed mixing with all sorts and conditions ofmen, he found the Liberty Hall regime pleasant.

　　He liked to be a magnet, attracting New York's Bohemian population. Ifhe had his preferences among the impecunious crowd who used the studioas a chapel of ease, strolling in when it pleased them, drinking hiswhisky, smoking his cigarettes, borrowing his money, and, on occasion,his spare bedrooms and his pyjamas, he never showed it. He was fully aspleasant to Percy Shanklyn, the elegant, perpetually resting Englishactor, whom he disliked as far as he was capable of disliking any one,as he was to Hank Jardine, the prospector, and Hank's prize-fighterfriend, Steve Dingle, both of whom he liked enormously.

　　It seemed to him sometimes that he had drifted into the absolutelyideal life. He lived entirely in the present. The passage of time lefthim untouched. Day followed day, week followed week, and nothing seemedto change. He was never unhappy, never ill, never bored.

　　He would get up in the morning with the comfortable knowledge that theday held no definite duties. George Pennicut would produce one of hisexcellent breakfasts. The next mile-stone would be the arrival of SteveDingle. Five brisk rounds with Steve, a cold bath, and a rub-down tookhim pleasantly on to lunch, after which it amused him to play atpainting.

　　There was always something to do when he wearied of that until, almostbefore the day had properly begun, up came George with one of hiscelebrated dinners. And then began the incursion of his friends. One byone they would drop in, making themselves very much at home, to helptheir host through till bedtime. And another day would slip into thepast.

　　It never occurred to Kirk that he was wasting his life. He had noambitions. Ambition is born of woman, and no woman that he had ever methad ever stirred him deeply. He had never been in love, and he had cometo imagine that he was incapable of anything except a mild liking forwomen. He considered himself immune, and was secretly glad of it. Heenjoyed his go-as-you-please existence too much to want to have itupset. He belonged, in fact, to the type which, when the momentarrives, falls in love very suddenly, very violently, and for all time.

　　Nothing could have convinced him of this. He was like a child lightingmatches in a powder-magazine. When the idea of marriage crossed hismind he thrust it from him with a kind of shuddering horror. He couldnot picture to himself a woman who could compensate him for the loss ofhis freedom and, still less, of his friends.