Strangely enough, everyone seemed to be talking at once, and no one seemed to be looking either at him or at Standish. In cool, level, unhurried tones they were speaking; these denizens of an unknown world, into whose presence he fought his way unasked, unwanted. Their language was not his language; their thoughts were not his thoughts. They were moving on as if he did not exist. Caleb remembered having read in some newspaper’s “reprint” column, how an oyster calmly glazes over the grain of irritating sand that has found unwelcome refuge within its shell. He felt humiliatingly like the nucleus of such a pearl. And with the thought, and the waning of the wine’s effects, came wholesome anger.
“I’ve got more cash than the whole crowd of ’em put together,” he told himself fiercely.
The reflection did much to build up his wobbling self-esteem. But, for the rest of the meal, he sat glum. After an endless, dreary aeon of time, Mrs. Standish’s eye-glasses flashed to the others of her sex the signal to retire. Everyone rose. The women, collecting from the men beside them the handkerchiefs, fans and other feminine accessories that strewed the floor under the table, filed out, chatting and laughing. Caleb, not minded to seem inferior to any man by hanging back and giving precedence to others, left the room at the heels of the last woman.
“Oh, Conover!” called Caine, as the Fighter’s shoulders vanished through the doorway.
“I wanted to ask you something about Steeloid Preferred, if you don’t mind,” continued Amzi.
A backward look told Conover that the men were re-seating themselves. He also saw the meaning of his mentor’s summons. At that moment Caleb came nearer feeling gratitude toward Caine than ever he had felt it for any man. He slouched back, unconcernedly; lighted a cigar, shook out his match and dropped into the vacated chair at Caine’s left. Mentally he resolved to tear the etiquette book, leaf from leaf, for failing to warn him that men outstay women in a dining room. But, with characteristic calm, he refused to be ruffled by the mistake.
“What was it you wanted to ask me?” said he.
“About Steeloid,” repeated Caine, “and about a rumor I heard that the Rogers-Whitman Company is—”
“Don’t let us talk business,” growled Conover, “I never talk shop when I’m out in s’ciety. It’s bad form. I’d rather chat just now ’bout music.”
He was himself again; loudly self-assured.