A cocktail had heralded the meal. This, with his glass of dry sherry, now began little by little to cut away the Fighter’s crust of stark self-consciousness. He was not wont, of late years, to touch liquor at all; although in early days his Gargantuan drinking bouts had been the wonder of the local Underworld. On his unaccustomed senses the slight stimulant now acted with redoubled force. It sharpened his wits, banished his first feeling of stiff discomfort, enabled him to come out of himself and take note of what went on about him. Caine talking animatedly just opposite, was nevertheless looking unobtrusively at Conover. So were Reuben Standish and others at the table. To their varied relief or disappointment the big, silent man had perpetrated thus far none of the capers which comic stories ascribe to _parvenus_. He handled his soup-spoon with an inward sweep, it is true; but he ate quietly and as one not wholly unaccustomed to civilized methods. Desirée’s long and stern training was standing him in good stead. Letty, emboldened by these repeated signs of house-brokenness, ventured a few perfunctory remarks to him. Caleb replied briefly, but without embarrassment. He even answered a question put him from across the table, with the same self-possession. Caine relaxed his nervous vigilance. His reluctant admiration for the newcomer was increasing. Conover, with the true fighter’s intuition, noted all the tokens of his own well-being, and his dawning self-possession grew steadily stronger. The talk at his end of the table had turned into musical channels. “We were able to get Miss Tyson for the musicale after all,” Letty was saying. “She was to have sung at the Worcester Music Festival, you know; but at the last moment they engaged someone else.” “We are so grateful,” chimed in Mrs. Standish, managing to inject just a little recognition of the Divine into her tone. “She has a wonderful voice. In Munich she once sung the Forest Bird music in a performance of _Siegfried_. Just think! One of our own townswomen, too!” She cast a vitreous beam athwart the table as she spoke. Caine used to say that when Mrs. Standish’s glasses diffused that look, he was always sore tempted to bow his head and murmur “Amen.” “Yes,” prattled the Saint, “hers is a heaven-sent gift. I believe that singing may often bear a message--” “It’s easier, I should think,” put in Caleb, suddenly finding his tongue as he set down his empty wine glass, “for a woman to sing like a forest bird than for a bird to sing songs made up by humans. “F’r instance,” he proceeded, with renewed courage, mistaking the general hush of surprise for a gratifying interest, “there’s a lady I know here in Granite who has a canary bird that sings all about the death of Ase. Sings it fine, too.” Letty giggled. “So you are a Grieg fiend, like so many other Granite people just now, Mr. Conover?” said she.