"Not more than half real," so White had portrayed her, and as such she gradually became to Truedale. He plunged into business, as many a man had before him, to fill the gaps in his life; and he found, as others had, that the taste of power--the discovery that he could meet and fulfil the demands made upon him--carried him out of the depths and eventually secured a place for him in the world of men that he valued and strove to prove himself worthy of. He wisely went slowly and took the advice of such men as McPherson and his uncle's old lawyer. He grew in time to enjoy the position of trust as his duties multiplied, and he often wondered how he could ever have despised the common lot of his fellows. He deliberately, and from choice, set his personal tastes aside--time enough for his reading and writing when he had toughened his mental muscles, he thought. Lynda deplored this, but Truedale explained: "You see, Lyn, when I began to carve the thing out--the play, you know--I had no idea how to handle the tools; like many fools with a touch of talent, I thought I could manage without preparation. I've learned better. You cannot get a thing over to people unless you know something of life--speak the language. I'm learning, and when I feel that I cannot _help_ writing--I'll write." "Good!" Lynda saw his point; "and now let's haunt the theatres--see the machinery in running order. We'll find out what people want and _why_." So they went to the theatre and read plays. Brace made the wholesome third and their lives settled into calm enjoyment that was charming but which sometimes--not often, but occasionally--made Lynda pause and consider. It would not do--for Con--to fall into a pace that might defeat his best good. But this thought brought a deep crimson to the girl's cheeks. And then something happened. It was so subtle that Lynda Kendall, least of all, realized the true significance. Once in the early days of her secured self-support, William Truedale had said to her: "You give too much attention, girl, to your tailor and too little to your dressmaker." Lynda had laughingly called her friend frivolous and defended her wardrobe. "One cannot doll up for business, Uncle William." "Is business your whole life, Lynda? If so you had better reform it. If women are going to pattern their lives after men's they must go the whole way. A sensible man recognizes the need of shutting the office door sometimes and putting on his dress suit." "Well, but Uncle William, what is the matter with this perfectly built suit? I always slip a fresh blouse on when I am off duty. I hate to be always changing." "If you had a mother, Lynda, she would make you see what I mean. An old fungus like me cannot be expected to command respect from such an up-to-date humbug as you!" They had laughed it off and Lynda had, once or twice, donned a house gown to please her critical friend, but eventually had slipped back into suits and blouses.