"Who is that very distinguished man over there?" said Mrs. J. Smith Crawford, the wife of the senior deacon of the First Presbyterian.
Miss Mayhew adjusted her lorgnette. "What very distinguished man?"
"There's only one," replied Mrs. Crawford. "The man over there who looks like a cross between a poet and an athlete."
"Oh, that's Skinner, of McLaughlin & Perkins, Inc. The Skinners are great friends of ours."
As a matter of fact, Miss Mayhew had never taken the trouble to notice the Skinners, but now that Skinner had made an impression on the exclusive Mrs. Crawford, that altered the case.
"I'm glad," said Mrs. Crawford. "Go get him."
Skinner found Mrs. Crawford most engaging. She was neither haughty nor full of the pedantry with which social leaders try to disabuse the mind of the ordinary citizen that the rich must necessarily be dubs. Twenty minutes later, Deacon Crawford came up and Skinner was presented.
"I'm mighty glad to know you, Mr. Skinner," said the deacon. "Some views I heard you expressing just now were quite in accord with my own."
Skinner left the Crawfords presently with his head in the clouds. But he was brought down to earth by some one plucking him by the sleeve.
"Gee, Skinner, where did you get it?" said Allison, who stood there in a sack suit, grinning.