Moreover, this disaster furnished a steady topic for conversation. He was
aware that he contributed little froth and less substance to a dinner
table, that, in short, he did not keep up his end. Although he assured
himself that small talk was beneath a man of serious purpose, and that no
one could acquire it anyhow in society unless addicted to sport, still
there had been times when he was painfully aware that a dinner partner or
some bright charming creature whose invitation to call he had accepted,
looked politely bored or chattered desperately to cover the silences into
which he abruptly relapsed; when, "for the life of him he had not been able
to think of a thing to say."
Then, briefly, he had felt a bitter rebellion at fate for having denied him
the gift of a lively and supple mind, as well as those numberless worldly
benefits lavished on men far less deserving than he.
He felt dull and depressed after such revelations and sometimes considered
attending evening lectures at the University of California with his sister.
But for this form of mental exertion he had no taste, keenly as he applied
himself to his work during the hours of business; and he assured himself
that such knowledge would do him no good anyway. It did not seem to be
prevalent in society. If he had been a brilliant hand at bridge or poker,
the inner fortifications of society would have gone down before him, but
his courage did not run to card gambling with wealthy idlers who set their
own pace.
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