“Only with me,” she smiled. “You are to be my own knight, and I lay this last injunction on you: Business is never to be mentioned to me save in our daily interview of affairs. My social hours are sacred.” He bowed and smiled. “If anything of moment should occur,” he murmured. “You will be held harmless,” she smiled. “Obey orders, if you break owners.” Perfectly conscious that Hathorn would probably spy upon him, fearful of over-reaching himself by any rash hurry, Mr. Harold Vreeland assiduously delved into all the daily business details and carefully refrained from urging on the growing social intimacy with his patroness. Horton Wyman and Noel Endicott were both University Club men; the last, a stalwart son of Eli, was a survival of the fittest from the shock of football and the straining oar. The cool head bookkeeper, Aubrey Maitland, was Wyman’s daily luncheon companion, and young Noel Endicott always fled away at noon hour to the Judge’s office, where the oak was sported. It was only in their regularly exchanged uptown social courtesies that Vreeland was enabled to study his partner. It was, after all, of very little moment to him, for they both seemed to be “personally conducted” by that silvered-haired old solon, Hiram Endicott. Their way was made very smooth. “It’s a very strange situation,” mused Vreeland. “I am a sort of Ishmael—playing my hand against every man’s. They all think to find me soon growing uneasy and squirming around in curiosity. “‘Time and I against the whole world,’ said William the Silent. It’s a good motto, and I will let them make the whole game. But, by and by, I will get behind the scenes, and then ‘shove the clouds along.’” With a rare self-control, he continued his judicious self-effacing policy, and yet slyly watched the impartial welcome extended by Elaine Willoughby to the stream of notable and desirable men who thronged her hospitable halls. The preliminary skirmishes of the coming battle with the Hathorns had vastly amused him, and “all society” knew now of the impassive prudence of the rising star. It had been Elaine Willoughby’s one fault that her strong nature leaned little on other women. For her strong nature buoyed her up above the petted society dolls around her. She knew that they were barren Sahara deserts to her; she was perfectly conscious of the absolute dearth of interest in woman natures for each other. The few respectable “relicts” who sought her bounty were always ranged near her, like old battleships on the shores of Time, honorably scarred, but “out of commission” and, unfit for action. Their mild incense of perfunctory flattery was but a prelude to the confession of their thousand little wants. And to them, she played the Lady Bountiful. But Vreeland honestly, yet silently, gloried in Elaine Willoughby’s brilliant early winter social campaign.