"And--now that we're just the family here together--how goes the financial side? Can I be of any assistance in introducing you to some engineering firm where you could do a little work on the side? You could make quite a little money----" So confoundedly affectionate and paternal---- Milt said irritably, "Thanks, but I don't need to do any work. I've got plenty of money." "How pleasant!" Saxton's voice was smooth as marshmallow. "You're fortunate. I had quite a struggle to get through Princeton." Wasn't Mr. Gilson contrasting Saxton's silk shirt with Milt's darned cotton covering, and in light of that contrast chuckling at Milt's boast and Saxton's modesty? Milt became overheated. His scalp prickled and his shoulder-blades were damp. As Saxton turned from him, and crooned to Claire, "More ham, honey?" Milt hated himself. He was in much of the dramatic but undesirable position of a man in pajamas, not very good pajamas, who has been locked out in the hotel corridor by the slamming of his door. He was in the frame of mind of a mongrel, of a real Boys'-Dog, at a Madison Square dog-show. He had a faint shrewd suspicion of Saxton's game. But what could he do about it? He felt even more out of place when the family forgot him and talked about people of whom he had never heard. He sat alone on an extremely distant desert isle and ate cold ham and wished he were in Schoenstrom. Claire had recovered her power of speech. She seemed to be trying to bring him into the conversation, so that the family might appreciate him. She hesitated, and thought with creased brows, and brought out, "Uh, uh, oh---- Oh Milt: How much is gas selling at now?"... * * * * * Milt left that charming and intimate supper-party at nine. He said, "Got to work on--on my analytical geometry," as though it was a lie; and he threw "Good night" at Saxton as though he hated his kind, good benefactor; and when he tried to be gracious to Mrs. Gilson the best he could get out was, "Thanks f' inviting me." They expansively saw him to the door. Just as he thought that he had escaped, Saxton begged, "Oh, Daggett, I was arguing with a chap---- What color are Holstein-Friesian cattle? Red?" "Black and white," Milt said eagerly. He heard Mrs. Gilson giggle. He stood on the terrace wiping his forehead and, without the least struggle, finally and irretrievably admitting that he would never see Claire Boltwood or any of her friends again. Not--never! * * * * * He had received from Mrs. Gilson a note inviting him to share their box at the first night of a three-night Opera Season. He had spent half a day in trying to think of a courteously rude way of declining.