“She is his secretary and everything else. She came here three years ago as Blanche’s governess. To give the poor girl a sort of winding-up polish before Caleb sent her to Europe. She made all sorts of a hit with Conover. Principally because she’s the only person on earth who isn’t afraid of him, so I hear. And now she is secretary, and major domo, and ‘right-hand man,’ and I don’t know what not else. Mrs. Conover’s only a ‘cipher,’ as you say, and Miss Alice Lanier—not Caleb—is the ‘figure’ in front of her. That’s the new-made princess, to the right. The tall one with the no-colored hair. I suppose that’s the Prince d’Antri beside her.”
“He’s too handsome to be a very real prince. What a face for a sculptor or——”
“Or a barber. A beard like that——”
A gorgeously apparelled couple just in front of the Greers, in the line, moved forward within the zone of Conover’s greeting. Caleb nodded patronizingly to the man, and more civilly to the woman.
“Mr. Conover,” the latter was murmuring in an anguish of respectful embarrassment, “’tis a great honor you do me and the man, askin’ us here to-night with all your stylish friends, an’——”
“Oh, there’s more than your husband and me, here, who’d get hungry by habit if they heard a noon whistle blow,” laughed Conover, as with a jerk of his red head and a word of pleasant welcome, he passed them on down the reception line. Then the Railroader’s light, deep-set eyes fell on Greer, and he stepped forward, both hands outstretched.
“Good evening, Greer!” he cried, and there was a subcurrent of latent power in his hearty voice. “Good evening! Pleased to see you in my house. Mrs. Greer, I presume? Most kind of you to come, ma’am. Proud to make your acquaintance. Letty!”—summoning with a jerk of the head an overdressed, frightened-looking little woman from the line behind him—“Letty, this is my very good friend, Mr. Talbot Firth Greer—Mrs. Conover—Mr. and Mrs. Greer. Mr. Greer is the next Congressman from the Eleventh District. (That’s a little prophecy, Mr. Greer. You can gamble on its coming true.) My daughter, Princess d’Antri—Mr. and Mrs. Greer. Prince Amadeo d’Antri. My secretary, Miss Anice Lanier—Mr. and Mrs.——”
A new batch of guests swarmed down the hall toward the host, and the ordeal was over. The Greers, swept on in the rush, did not hear Conover’s next greeting. This was rather a pity, since it differed materially from that lavished upon themselves.
Its recipient was a big young man, with a shock of light hair and quiet, dark eyes. He wore his clothes well, and looked out of place in his vulgar, garish surroundings. Caleb Conover, Railroader, eyed the newcomer all over with a cold, expressionless glance. A glance that no seer on earth could have read; the glance that had gained him more than one victory when wits and concealment of purpose were rife. Then he held out a grudging hand.
“Well, Mr. Clive Standish,” he observed, “it seems the lion and the lamb lie down together, after all—a considerable distance this side of the millennium. And the lamb inside, at that. To think of a clubman and a cotillon leader, and a first-families scion and a Civic Leaguer and all that sort of thing condescending to honor my poor shanty——”