The wilful coarseness and brutality of the man came as no surprise to Standish. He had expected something of the sort, and had braced himself for it. To please his aunt, whom he sincerely pitied, he had entered the Conover house to-night for the first time since the Homeric quarrel, incident on his refusal to avail himself of Caleb’s prestige in his law work, and, incidentally to enroll himself as one of the Railroader’s numberless political vassals. That the roughness to which Conover had just subjected him was no more a part of the former’s real nature than had been the nervous effusiveness of his greeting to the Greers, Clive well knew. It had been intended to cover any embarrassing memories of a former and somewhat less strained acquaintanceship; and as such it—like most of Conover’s moves—had served its turn. So, resisting his first impulse to depart as he had come, Standish moved on. The formal receiving phalanx was crumpling up. He paused for a moment’s talk with little Mrs. Conover, exchanged a civil word or two with his cousin Blanche and her prince, and then came to where Anice Lanier was trying to make conversation for several awed-looking, bediamonded persons who were evidently horribly ill at ease in their surroundings. At sight of the girl, the formal lines about Clive’s mouth were broken by a smile of very genuine pleasure. A smile that gave a younger aspect to his grave face, and found ready answer in the brown eyes that met his. “Haven’t you toiled at a forlorn hope long enough?” he asked, as the awed beings drifted away into the uncomfortable crowd, carrying their burden of jewels with them. “A forlorn hope?” she queried, puzzled. “You actually seemed to be trying to galvanize at least a segment of this portentous gathering into a semblance of life. Don’t do it. In the first place you can’t. Saloonkeepers and Pompton Avenue people won’t blend. In the second place, it isn’t expected of you. The papers to-morrow will record the right names just as jealously as if every one had had a good time. Suppose you concentrate all your efforts on me. Come! It will be a real work of charity. For Mr. Conover has just shown me how thoroughly I’m the prodigal. And he didn’t even hint at the whereabouts of a fatted calf. Please be merciful and make me have a good time. It’s months since I’ve seen you to talk to.” “Then why don’t you come here oftener?” she asked, as they made their way through the press, and found an unoccupied alcove between two of the great rooms. “I’m sure Mrs. Conover——” “My poor aunt? She’d be frightened to death that Conover and I would quarrel. No, no! To-night is an exception. The first and the last. I persuaded myself I came because of Aunt Letty’s note. But I really came for a chat with you.” She looked at him, doubting how to accept this bald compliment. But his face was boyish in its sincerity.