“You should certainly have him paint you, Colonel. This is the best place in the world for the assembling of works of art; the grime soon makes old masters of them all. The orchestra trustees meet at three this afternoon in the board room of the Fine Arts building. Your check was generous, Colonel; but Wayne will have to work. Don’t forget the meeting, Wayne. We count on him, Colonel Craighill. By the way, Wayne, an old friend of ours has turned up here--Paddock of agile legs and stammering tongue. What profits it, may I ask, for any man to lay up store of wealth for his children when they’re likely to scorn the fleshpots for locusts and wild honey? One might expect Paddock to come here to study the iron business, but bless me! he’s come to save our souls.” “Yes; I’ve seen Jimmy.” “I thought you hadn’t seen him,” remarked Colonel Craighill in surprise. “Oh, yes; I ran into him the other night by chance,” replied Wayne, “just after we had been talking about him. He’s the same chap. Our meeting wasn’t very fortunate--in fact, we didn’t seem to hit it off.” “He always was modest about himself, you remember,” said Wingfield. “I wanted to give him a dinner at the Club to interest people in his missionary schemes, but he wouldn’t have it.” “He’s doing a noble work, I hear,” said Colonel Craighill. “It’s unfortunate that he won’t accept help from those among us who know the local conditions.” “Well, it’s a relief that philanthropy can enter this town just once without preluding itself with a lot of bombast and brag,” sighed Wingfield. “I’m for Paddock; in fact, I have every honourable intention of placing my soul at his disposal. It’s only decent to patronize new home industries.” Colonel Craighill had not known of Wayne’s election to the orchestra board, and as Wingfield left he said: “That’s the kind of thing I like our name to be identified with--the best aims and endeavours of the city. I’m deeply gratified to know that you are interested in the orchestra. We older men have our hands full. It’s for your generation to build upon our foundations.” “They put me on the board, I guess, because I used to play the fiddle!” “So you did! That was your dear mother’s idea--that you should take violin lessons. As I remember, you showed considerable aptitude.” “I believe I rather liked it.” And Wayne saw himself again in knickerbockers standing at his mother’s side by the piano, in the half-remembered days of his happy childhood. He was thrown back upon the mood of four nights before, when he had stood before his mother’s portrait and felt the call of memory. There was in his heart a turbulent rebellion against this impeccable father, who faced him as always, bland, poised, assured. Imaginary wrongs grew real; slight injuries and injustices, long forgotten, cried fiercely in their recrudescence for vengeance.