“I wish I could help you with him. I’ve met his daughter, Letty, once or twice. They say she’s engaged to Mr. Caine. Mrs. Hawarden tells me they’ve been in love with each other ever since she stopped playing with dolls. I should have hated to give up dolls just in exchange for Mr. Caine. Are there any more Governors?” “A few. None that you know. I must be off. Now, remember, you aren’t to worry. It’s all right. I wouldn’t bother to keep in the Club if it was like most places of that kind. But it isn’t. The Arareek’s an institootion in Granite. If you ain’t in it, you’re nobody. An’ at Ladies’ Days an’ times like that, the Big people always show up. It’s a good thing to belong. Besides, a feller gets lots of new experience by joinin’ a country club. F’r instance, I never knew what reel lonesoneness was till I went to a few of their Ladies’ Days an’ Field Days. I might as well a’ been on a desert island.” “You poor boy! It’s a burning shame! Why do you--?” “Oh, it ain’t always goin’ to be like that. Don’t be sorry about it. I’ll whip ’em into shape before I’m done.” The soaring, clear song of a canary broke in on his boast. Beginning with a faint, barely audible trill, it rose in a glorious piercing crescendo of melody; hung, vibrated, scaled a whole octave, then ceased as abruptly as it had begun. Caleb turned toward the window between whose curtains swung a cage. The occupant, a ball of golden fluff, barred with gray-green, hopped self-importantly from perch to perch, nervously delighted with the man’s scrutiny. “Hello!” said Conover. “When’d you get that? I never saw him before.” “He came yesterday,” explained Desirée. “Isn’t he a little darling? Jack Hawarden sent him to me.” “That kid? You don’t mean to say _he’s_ stuck on you, too? Why he’s barely twenty-one an’ he can’t earn his own livin’.” “It’s a real pleasure, Caleb, to hear your fulsome praise of the men I happen to know. First Mr. Blacarda, and now--” “That’s what’s called ‘sarcasm,’ ain’t it?” asked Conover. “I didn’t mean to rile you. I guess young Hawarden’s all right,--as far’s college let him learn to be. What’s the bird’s name? Or don’t birds have names?” “Why? Had you thought of one for him? How would ‘Steeloid’ do?” Caleb’s grin of genuine delight at the suggestion made her add quickly with more tact than truth: “I wish I’d thought of that before. How silly of me not to! For, you see he’s already named now.” “Oh, he is, hey?” said the discomfited Conover. “Who named him? Hawarden?” “No. Billy and I. His name’s Siegfried-Mickey.” “What a crazy name for a--!” “Yes, isn’t it? That’s why I like it so. Billy wanted to call him ‘Mickey’ after the bulldog he used to have. And _I_ wanted to call him Siegfried. So we compromised on Siegfried-Mickey. He’s a dear. He knows his name already. Don’t you, Siegfried Mickey?” The bird, thus adjured, maintained a severely non-committal dumbness.