"Come, Ellery, we'll face the music, now that the real attractions are gone," said Dick. Mr. Early extended two hands, ponderous in proportion to the rest of his body, in fatherly greeting. "Ah, Percival, my dear fellow, so you are done with Yale and back again in St. Etienne? I welcome you out of the fetters of mere bookishness into the freedom of real life, where it is man's business to serve, and not to absorb." Dick blushed guiltily as several surrounding ladies turned their lorgnettes on him, but Mr. Early went on, undisturbed and very audible: "I do not introduce you to Swami Ram Juna, because introductions belong to the world of conventionalities, and he lives in that world where real human relations are the only things that count; but I put your hand in his, in token of the contact in which your spirit may meet his great soul." "Very good of you, I'm sure," murmured Dick, as the Swami bent his head and gave him a penetrating look. "You, too, then, are a seeker?" Ram Juna inquired in a low tone, but with his delicate and distinct enunciation. "Ah--I hope so," Dick answered hastily, and with an evident desire to push the topic no further. "And this, Mr. Early, is my old chum, Norris, who has come West to be on the editorial staff of the _Star_." "The _Star_? It is the symbol of illumination. Is then your _Star_ devoted to the enlightenment of mankind?" asked Ram Juna, transferring his fixed gaze. "In a sense--yes," Norris faltered with a swift guilty recollection of certain head-lines in last night's edition. "He who writes must think. He who thinks goes below the surface. He who goes below the surface is moving toward the center," said the Swami oracularly. Mr. Early's broad face expanded into a benevolent smile, and an oncoming instalment swept the young men away. "Does Mr. Early learn his remarks by heart?" asked Norris. "I don't know. But let us be seekers. Let us seek dinner, and fresh air. Give me fresh air--anything but Nirvana!" CHAPTER II MOTHER AND SON To have been captain of the foot-ball team, which some student of sociology has called the highest office in the free gift of the American people, might seem glory enough for one life; but Richard Percival was of such stuff that all past triumphs became dust and ashes. He was greedy of the future. Now that the doors of college were fairly closed, that career became to him but as a half-dreaming condition, before one wakes.