The reflection did much to build up his wobbling self-esteem. But, for the rest of the meal, he sat glum. After an endless, dreary aeon of time, Mrs. Standish’s eye-glasses flashed to the others of her sex the signal to retire. Everyone rose. The women, collecting from the men beside them the handkerchiefs, fans and other feminine accessories that strewed the floor under the table, filed out, chatting and laughing. Caleb, not minded to seem inferior to any man by hanging back and giving precedence to others, left the room at the heels of the last woman. “Oh, Conover!” called Caine, as the Fighter’s shoulders vanished through the doorway. “I wanted to ask you something about Steeloid Preferred, if you don’t mind,” continued Amzi. A backward look told Conover that the men were re-seating themselves. He also saw the meaning of his mentor’s summons. At that moment Caleb came nearer feeling gratitude toward Caine than ever he had felt it for any man. He slouched back, unconcernedly; lighted a cigar, shook out his match and dropped into the vacated chair at Caine’s left. Mentally he resolved to tear the etiquette book, leaf from leaf, for failing to warn him that men outstay women in a dining room. But, with characteristic calm, he refused to be ruffled by the mistake. “What was it you wanted to ask me?” said he. “About Steeloid,” repeated Caine, “and about a rumor I heard that the Rogers-Whitman Company is--” “Don’t let us talk business,” growled Conover, “I never talk shop when I’m out in s’ciety. It’s bad form. I’d rather chat just now ’bout music.” He was himself again; loudly self-assured. “This feller, Back, they were speakin’ about at dinner to-night,” he went on. “I’m kind o’ rusty on op’ras, lately. So I’ve lost track of him. Is he composin’ much, nowadays?” “Bach has been de-composing for a couple of centuries,” answered Caine. One or two men laughed. Caleb waxed glum once more. Nor could the combined tact of Caine and their host draw him again into speech. * * * * * The Fighter, glowering in a corner, watched the stream of musicale guests trickle in through the great double doors. He was lonely, cross, disappointed. He could not define his own sensations, nor see how nor wherein he had failed. Failure he had met. He knew that. But the knowledge made him the more determined to persist in his assault until the social citadel whose outworks he had stormed, should be his. And, the more he thought, the more his amorphous idea of entering that citadel under a wife’s aegis began to take definite shape. He found his gaze straying to where Letty Standish stood laughing and talking with a knot of newcomers. Once his eye caught hers, and she smiled. A polite, deprecatory smile that strengthened Caleb’s growing resolution. After all, he reflected, one might do worse than to marry.