“Let it go at that,” ordered Conover sullenly, “There’s something else I wanted to ask you about, first time I saw you alone. You told me one day that Desirée Shevlin could take any place she wanted, in s’ciety here, if only she married the right sort of a man. Remember?” “Why, yes. But--” “Well, would it work both ways? I mean, if _I_ was to marry a girl who had a big social position in Granite, would it help me on, any?” “I--should think so,” hesitated Caine, overcoming a desire to laugh at the unique idea. “Why? Are you thinking of it?” “Not exactly thinkin’ of it, but turnin’ it over in my mind. If I was _thinkin’_ about it I’d do it. That’s my way.” “Who is the lucky damsel?” bantered Caine, “Or haven’t you selected her yet?” “I’ve about picked her out,” said Caleb slowly, “Just now she’s keepin’ comp’ny with another man.” “Of course you won’t let that stand in your way for an instant?” “No,” returned Caleb, on whom irony of any sort was ever lost, “Of course not. I have a way of gettin’ what I want. I only wish,” he continued with a half sigh of weariness, “that I could always keep on wantin’ what I get.” Clive Standish ran into the room. From one of the servants he had heard of Caine’s arrival. “What fun to find you before you go down!” he cried, “I was afraid you wouldn’t see me to-night and I knew you’d be disappointed. Aunt Lydia won’t let me sit up for the musicale, because I was bad last evening. And she’s made me learn a hymn called ‘I Know That God is Wroth With Me!’ besides. The hymn is signed ‘I. Watts.’ I think ‘I. Watts’ must have been a very sorrowful person. I wonder if God really disliked him as much as ‘I. Watts’ pretended. He--” The child checked himself, catching sight of Caleb. “I beg your pardon,” he said, “I didn’t see there was anyone here besides Mr. Caine. Mr. Caine,” he explained, condescendingly, “is a friend of mine.” “Go on with your gabfest together, then,” vouchsafed Caleb, with an effort at unbending. “Don’t mind _me_.” The boy’s brows contracted at sound of the false note in Caleb’s voice. He looked at the Fighter long and with frank criticism. Caleb bore the scrutiny with visible discomfort. He was not fond of children and did not understand them. Having had no childhood himself he could nowhere meet them on equal terms. Yet, as this slender, Eton-suited youngster was apparently a relative of Letty’s and a member of the same household, he sought to improve the acquaintance. “I know a little rat about your age,” he began, with elephantine geniality, “His name’s Billy Shevlin. Smart boy, too. Sharp as a whip. Ever meet him?” “No, sir,” replied Clive, “I think not.” “No? You wouldn’t be likely to, I s’pose. While you’re home, evenin’s, learnin’ hymns, he’s out learnin’ life. Spends most of his evenin’s round at the fire-house. Why, that kid knows the name of each engine in town the minute he hears ’em whistle.”