The young man rather prided himself on his social knowingness acquired since his return to New York. Brainard sighed, and, with a grimace, resigned himself to Mrs. Donnie Pearmain. The secretary proceeded to prepare his master for the coming luncheon. “You know what she did for the half orphans last year? The year before it was the tuberculosis campaign. But now she’s giving up mere charity for art, and ours is the very thing to interest her. The Rev. Thomson Spicer will be there.” “The clergy, too!” “Of course. They make the next best publicity agents after the newspapers. They preach about popular movements, you know. You’ll see what Spicer will do for us next Sunday. He’s much interested in the moral influence of the theater upon the masses.” Brainard groaned. “President Nathaniel Butterfield of Eureka University has also promised to be there.” “Professors? Ye gods! Where will you stop, Ned?” “Dr. Butterfield has views on the educational value of the stage.” “I’m not founding a religious kindergarten!” The secretary, ignoring this feeble protest, consulted his note book for further details. “Jaggard, the banker, has been asked, and Toowit, of the _Daily Beacon_, and my old boss, Howard Bunker. A very representative gathering of prominent persons!” the secretary commented complacently. “They would make an admirable board of trustees.” “What do you propose to trustee—me?” Brainard roared. “Every movement has to have a board of trustees—a list of good names to print at the head of the note paper, you know,” the young man explained patiently. Brainard’s simplicity was occasionally wearisome, and he was proving more difficult to handle than Farson had expected. It required considerable tact at times “to keep the ‘Sulfur King’ all on the track.” He remarked to pacify his employer, “They don’t interfere unless you ask them for money, and of course you won’t have to do so in this case.” What Brainard might have said about wrapping his great idea in a wad of distinguished trustees was prevented by the appearance of MacNaughton. He came into the library at that moment, with the air of an old diplomat, which was the rôle he had affected since he had joined the movement. His quiet gray suit was adorned with a small red button. He wore horn-bowed eyeglasses and carried a large leather portfolio. An unlighted cigar protruded from his mouth. “Good morning, gentlemen,” he remarked, settling himself in a chair opposite the secretary and turning over the pile of applications for positions in the companies of the new society. He slowly dropped the letters to the floor. “All rotters, every one of them,” he announced with a profound sigh. “My boy, will you please hang out the sign, ‘No lady help wanted’?” “Are you sure they are all so bad?” Brainard asked hopefully.