“Can’t you find time to come out to us some day?” he inquired deferentially. “I’m sure the boys will be delighted to welcome you back to your old home. A little address at chapel? It is a great inspiration for young men thus to come into touch with persons who have made their mark in life.” Brainard merely laughed. He remembered a number of occasions when “old Nat” had introduced distinguished visitors to the academic audience in somewhat similar words. . . . At the luncheon Brainard was seated between the college president and his hostess. He easily recovered from his natural shyness and talked fluently of Arizona and sulfur. The others listened deferentially to him, and in the many subtle ways that these people understood of testifying their consideration for a promising man he was made to feel welcome. The banker, who had already put him on his list of capitalists that might be interested in some “undigested” railroad bonds his house had on their hands, was especially attentive. Indeed there was something of a contest for the guest’s attention between the banker and the university president, who each understood the other only too well. The banker, of course, did not commit the crudity of talking finance or even business; instead he discussed “public service” and “the new spirit of capital.” The kindly gleam of his shrewd blue eyes seemed to say to Brainard,—“You are one of the new kind, who will do everything for the dear Public!” And so before the succession of excellent courses had gone far, Brainard had forgotten his distaste for the social side of life, which he had expressed so vigorously to Farson that morning, and really believed that all these good people were as eager as he was to give the American public a superior form of dramatic art at prices within the reach of the poorest. And when he began to talk to the company at the conclusion of the luncheon, after a few words of flattering introduction from the hostess, he had no trouble in finding what he wanted to say. “First, you will forgive me if I say a word about myself, by way of introduction,” he began, with an engaging smile. “Four years ago, just about, I was here in New York, down and out—a poor, discouraged scribbler, earning a precarious existence by writing furniture advertisements, and sneaking into the upper gallery of a theater when I could get the price of an admission ticket.”