Now I don’t know how that man at the adjoining table in the restaurant where I happen to be dining, and whose face is so well known to the public, obtained his high place. I know only from the headlines the externals of his story. He alone knows all the ins, as well as the outs. His wife, seated beside him, wears the badges of his success, fine furs and jewels. The waiters are deferential. His folding money comes off his roll with a snap. Surrounded by the trappings of success, he knows how he obtained it, and fortunate indeed, this man—lying in his darkness later that same night, his wife’s jewels in their box, her furs hung away, his fine evening shirt on the chair beside him—fortunate is he if he can face himself and like what he sees.