“He seems such a nice, solid, sensible fellow.  I wish some of you would ask him to call on you.  He has no friends, apparently.”

The dinner at Justice Gallagher’s was a horse of a very different color.  The men did not impress him very highly, and the women not at all.  There was more to eat and drink, and the talk was fast and lively.  Peter was very silent.  So quiet, that Mrs. Gallagher told her “take in” that she “guessed that young Stirling wasn’t used to real fashionable dinners,” and Peter’s partner quite disregarded him for the rattling, breezy talker on her other side.  After the dinner Peter had a pleasant chat with the Justice’s seventeen-year-old daughter, who was just from a Catholic convent, and the two tried to talk in French.  It is wonderful what rubbish is tolerable if only talked in a foreign tongue.

“I don’t see what you wanted to have that Stirling for?” said Honorable Mrs. Justice Gallagher, to him who conferred that proud title upon her, after the guests had departed.

“You are clever, arn’t you?” said Gallagher, bitingly.

“That’s living with you,” retorted the H.M.J., who was not easily put down.

“Then you see that you treat Stirling as if he was somebody.  He’s getting to be a power in the ward, and if you want to remain Mrs. Justice Gallagher and spend eight thousand—­and pickings—­a year, you see that you keep him friendly.”

“Oh, I’ll be friendly, but he’s awful dull.”

“Oh, no, mamma,” said Monica.  “He really isn’t.  He’s read a great many more French books than I have.”

Peter lunched with the wholesale provision-dealer as planned.  The lunch hour proving insufficient for the discussion, a family dinner, a few days later, served to continue it.  The dealer’s family were not very enthusiastic about Peter.

“He knows nothing but grub talk,” grumbled the heir apparent, who from the proud altitude of a broker’s office, had come to scorn the family trade.

“He doesn’t know any fashionable people,” said one of the girls, who having unfulfilled ambitions concerning that class, was doubly interested and influenced by its standards and idols.

“He certainly is not brilliant,” remarked the mother.

“Humph,” growled the pater-familias, “that’s the way all you women go on.  Brilliant!  Fashionable!  I don’t wonder marriage is a failure when I see what you like in men.  That Stirling is worth all your dancing men, but just because he holds his tongue when he hasn’t a sensible thing to say, you think he’s no good.”

“Still he is ‘a nobody.’”

“He’s the fellow who made that big speech in the stump-tail milk case.”

“Not that man?”

“Exactly.  But of course he isn’t ‘brilliant.’”

“I never should have dreamed it.”

“Still,” said the heir, “he keeps his eloquence for cows, and not for dinners.”

“He talked very well at Dr. Purple’s,” said the mamma, whose opinion of Peter had undergone a change.