He greeted Mrs. Willers with a friendly fellowship, then let a quick, surreptitious glance sweep the room. She saw it, knew what he was looking for, but affected unconsciousness. His manner was touched by the slightest suggestion of something elaborate and theatrical, which, in Mrs. Willers’ mind, seemed to have some esoteric connection with the silk hat. This he now--after slowly looking about for a safe place of deposit--handed to Edna with the careless remark: “Will you put this down somewhere, Edna?” The child took it, flushing slightly. She was accustomed to being made much of by her mother’s guests, and Essex’s manner stung her little girl’s pride. But she put the hat on the piano and retired to her corner, behind the refreshment table. A few moments later she opened the door to Jake Shackleton. Mrs. Willers, red-cheeked and triumphant, felt that this was indeed a proud moment for her. She said as much, drawing an amused laugh from her second guest. He, too, had swept the room with a quick, investigating glance. This time Mrs. Willers did not affect unconsciousness, and said briskly: “No, our young lady hasn’t come yet. You’ll have to try and put up with me for a while.” It would have been difficult for the eye of the deepest affection to see in the Comstock millionaire the emigrant of twenty-five years before. A mother might have been deceived. The lean figure had grown chunky and heavy. The drawn face was now not full--it was the type of face that would never be full--but was lacking in the seams that had then furrowed it. The hair was gray, worn thin on the temples, and the beard, trimmed and well-tended, was gray, too. Perhaps the strongest tie with the past was that the man suggested the same hard, fine-drawn, wiry energy. It still shone in his narrow, light-colored eyes, and still was to be seen in his lean, muscular hand, that was frequently used in gesticulation. In manner the change was equally apparent. Though colloquial, his speech showed none of the coarse illiterateness of the past. His manner was quiet, abruptly natural, and not lacking in a sort of easy dignity, the dignity of the man who has won his place among men. He was dressed with the utmost simplicity. His soft felt wide-awake was not new, his black prince-albert coat did not fit him with anything like the elegance with which Barry Essex’s outlined his fine shape. A little purple cravat tied in a bow appeared from beneath his turned-down collar. It was somewhat shiny from the brushing of his beard. “You must suppose I’m anxious to see this young lady,” he said, “after what you’ve told me about her.” “Well, ask Mr. Essex if I’ve exaggerated,” said Mrs. Willers. “He knows her, too.” “I don’t know what you’ve said,” he returned, “but I don’t think anything could be too complimentary that was said of Miss Moreau.” “Eh!--better and better,” said the elder man. “I didn’t know you knew her, Essex?”