“See!” triumphed Desirée, “Silence gives assent. He’s a heavenly little singer. Why, only this morning, he sang nearly all the first bar of ‘_The Death of Ase_’.” “The which?” “‘_The Death of Ase._’ In the Peer Gynt suite, you know.” “Oh, yes! Of course. Sure!” mumbled Caleb hastily. “I was thinkin’ of some other feller’s suite. An’ he sang _that_, did he? The clever little cuss!” “Wasn’t he, though? And he’d only heard me play it once.” “Pretty hard thing to sing, too!” supplemented Caleb, wisely. “Caleb Conover,” she rebuked in cold admonition, “Look at me! No, in the eyes! _There!_ Now, how often have I told you not to make believe? You treat me just as if I was a child. _Why_ do you pretend to know about ‘_The Death of Ase_,’ you dear old simple humbug? Don’t you know I _always_ find you out when you--?” “I didn’t want you to think I wasn’t up on the things that int’rest you, girl,” he pleaded. “It’s rotten to feel you’ve got to talk down to me every time you speak about music or litterchoor or those things. An’--Lord! but I do hate to let on when I don’t understand things.” “You understand more of the _real_ things--the things that are worth while--than any other man alive,” she protested. “Now say goodbye and run on, or you’ll be late. Don’t forget to stop on the way back and let me know whether the lions eat Daniel or if Daniel--” “Eats the lions? I don’t know who Dan’l was, but this ain’t goin’ to be that kind of a show. It’ll just be a sheep-killin’ contest. An’ _I_ never was built to play the alloorin’ role of Sheep. So you can figger out who’ll be killer an’ who’ll get the job of _killee_.” CHAPTER III CALEB CONOVER FIGHTS Granite’s social life revolved about the Arareek Country Club. Granite felt a guilty pride when its more sensational preachers railed against the local preference for spending Sunday morning on the Arareek links or on the big clubhouse veranda, rather than in church pews. Granite social lights flared dazzlingly at the Club’s dances. Granite men chose the Arareek smoking room as a lounging place in preference to the more exclusive Pompton Club’s apartments. Situated a half mile beyond the growing city’s borders, the Arareek clubhouse lay in the centre of a narrow valley, whence its grounds radiated in all directions. Thither, Conover, after his talk with Desirée Shevlin, bent his steps. Caleb had been no less amazed than delighted when Caine, a year or so earlier, had succeeded in engineering his election to the Arareek. The Club had been in need of money and was therefore the less inquisitorial as to the character of candidates. Conover was then unknown to most of its members. With a half score of innocuous nobodies he had been admitted. The combined initiation fees had lifted the Arareek momentarily from its financial trouble.