Potter smiled back, forced himself to cast off the mood, compelled his mind away from Cantor. It was a thing not easy to accomplish. Every time he headed his thoughts away from the man they dodged around and approached from a new angle. He set his teeth and plunged into conversation with Eldredge. It was not an intelligent conversation, and more than once, when Potter gave vague replies or forgot to reply at all, Jack wondered what had gotten into his friend.... He was thinking now of Hildegarde von Essen--thinking bitter, unsavory thoughts. He refused even the lightest of wines, not because he was afraid of the exaltation, but because he knew himself, knew his rash impulsiveness, knew the difficulty he had, sober, to hold himself in hand. Inflamed by stimulant, he could not answer for his conduct, and it would be an ill thing to interrupt La Mothe's party by flying at Cantor's throat. The others were not so cautious. Glasses were filled and emptied. Waiters seemed to fear some calamity if a man were left with an empty glass before him. The party, like all masculine affairs, had been sedate, a trifle strained at the beginning. It was easier now. It was no drunken revel, no orgy, but tongues were set free, wits were kindled, the whole tone was lifted a key, and the signature was never in flats--always sharps. The time had been when such a party would have revolved around Potter Waite, when he would have given it its tempo--and the others would have found it not easy to follow his time. His presence was always desired, yet it was welcomed with a certain apprehension, for limits known to others did not bound him. Even now the young men in his immediate neighborhood felt a premonition that something reckless would happen. They were doomed to disappointment. The gaiety went on without him, in spite of him. He was not enjoying himself; indeed, he felt out of place and was rather piqued with himself that he should feel out of place. The truth was that in one year he had grown beyond such things; had graduated from that school, and its curriculum had nothing to offer him. Frankly, he was bored when he tried to enter into the spirit of the evening. But his efforts were not long continued. He sat gravely listening, or covertly watching Cantor and thinking of Hildegarde. It seemed impossible, monstrous, that he should sit peaceable at the same table with that man and restrain his fingers from the man's throat. Suddenly he leaned forward and listened. He could not have told why, but the word "aeroplane" had touched his ear. It was a charm to command his attention; it had called to his subconscious self. "Yes," O'Mera was saying, "I'm going to have a try at it next week."