“Sure, I will,” promised Conover, in all seriousness, “Just give me the word when the time comes an’ the feller’s yours for the askin’. But I’m kind of disappointed in the way you turn Caine down. It seemed such a grand idee. That’s one of the reasons I asked him in, this afternoon. I thought when you saw us together he’d kind of shine by contrast with me, you know. More’n when you meet him with folks of his own sort.” “The contrast was there!” she blazed. “It fairly _sizzled_, it was so strong. For one thing Mr. Caine has manner. And you haven’t got even _manners_. And I ought to hate you for daring to talk so to me. And--and you’re the dearest, stupidest, splendidest boy I know. Now I’m going to dress for dinner. You can talk to Siegfried-Mickey if you want to while I’m gone. But if you want to win his fondness, don’t make silly, squiffy plans for his social future.” She was out of the room before Conover could frame an answer. But on the instant she had turned back long enough to thrust her flushed face momentarily through the opening of the curtains and suggest demurely: “Caleb, if Mr. Hawarden should ever die, don’t you think it would be nice for Mrs. Hawarden to marry Billy? It would make the dear little fellow’s position in society so nice and secure!” CHAPTER VI CALEB CONOVER RUNS AWAY The following Monday morning found Caleb at the Capital ready and waiting for the battle which lay before him. He had arrived from Granite late Sunday night; with Caine and with one or two personal followers on whose timely aid, he knew from experience, he might count. For two days there had been a ceaseless downpour of rain. Conover and Caine, draped in long waterproof coats, stood at the entrance of their hotel, looking out on the flooded streets and dingy, streaming sky. They were waiting for the carriage that was to bear them to the State House. Caine glanced ever at his watch, his armor of habitual bored indifference worn perilously thin. Conover, on the other hand, showed no more emotion than if he were on his way to luncheon. As Caine’s hand, for the tenth time, crept toward his watch pocket, the Fighter remarked: