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man!—chose me for your partner. Gosh, after all our college years, you’ve got to believe me, and—”
    Pete waved his hand. “All right, all right, I believe you, but get to the point. What’s the complaint?”
    “It’s not a complaint. It’s that you and I go at different speeds, and—”
    Again Pete interrupted. “Oh, because I don’t want to take money out of the firm and invest, because I don’t want a fancier office, because I’m satisfied with—”
    “You’re satisfied with less than I want out of life. That’s about the size of it, Pete.”
    “More out of life! You’ve got a regular income, an apartment, friends, this whole fantastic city to play in. What’s the more that you want out of life?”
    The
more.
It was almost impossible to explain. It would sound absurd to say that this fantastic city had overwhelmed him with desire. What good was it to walk on Fifth Avenue or Madison or Fifty-seventh Street, gazing at the shops and the galleries filled with paintings of such beauty that you could hardly tear yourself away; what good to look at the airlines’ posters of Paris, Hawaii, and Morocco, to stare at splendid women as they stared into the windows of splendid jewelers’ shops, when every one of these was beyond one’s reach? What Pete called an “apartment” was a remodeled flat on the top floor of a walk-up. A real “apartment” was on the Upper East Side on a wide avenue, Fifth or Park, or on a quiet side street with a doorman standing under a green awning. There was no use in trying to explain.
    So he simplified his thoughts. “I’d like to expand, that’s all. You remember how I talked to you about tax shelters? You said no. Positively no.”
    “And I still do. We’re stockbrokers, Eddy.”
    “We’re not limited to that, though. That’s the way I see it. And you don’t. But that’s okay. Friends don’t always have to see things the same way.”
    “Eddy, you’re a gambler at heart.” The tone wasmildly reproachful. “You’ve got a gambling streak, and it’s dangerous.”
    “Who, me? A gambler? You’re all wrong, Pete. I’ve saved all my earnings. Built a nice fat nest egg. That’s why I’m in a position to go out on my own. After I repay your uncle’s loan and my half of the office expenses, I’ll still be solid.”
    “Taking in a partner?”
    “No, no. I’m setting up by myself. Osborne and Company. I’m the ‘Company.’ Brokerage and tax shelters. There’s a tremendous call for them. Perfectly legal. But you have to know just how to structure them for big write-offs. Customers will come flocking if you can.”
    Pete shook his head. “Big. It looks like big trouble to me.”
    Eddy laughed. “No, no, no. But you know what’s wonderful? That we can part with no hard feelings. Not on my part, at least.”
    Pete stood up and put out his hand. “Nor on mine. I wish you all the luck in the world, Eddy.”
    You had to spend money to make money. That was axiomatic. The decoration of the new office in a well-kept building on Madison Avenue had cost somewhat more than he had intended, but the result, as the decorating firm had promised, was totally pleasing.
    “It’s foolish to skimp on the quality of carpeting,” the man had told Eddy. “You can actually feel the richness of good carpet underfoot. It conveys an unmistakable impression.”
    And it was true, he thought as he glanced about thenew domain, from the dark green carpet to the elegantly framed etchings of classical Rome. What a relief after that dump of Pete’s!
    It was also true that a man’s suit conveyed an unmistakable impression. One of the older men whom he had met at Pete’s uncle’s tennis club had recommended a tailor. What a difference a custom-made suit could make! And he stroked his arm, now encased in the best British worsted. What a difference!
    At three he had an appointment with a builder. And hastening up Madison Avenue—someday he, too, would like a really distinguished