It would not be gallant to suggest that his swans were geese.

IV

The successful navigation of lower Tower Street, at noonday, required presence of mind on the part of the pedestrian.  There were currents and counter-currents, eddies and backwaters, and at the corner of Vine a veritable maelstrom through which two lines of electric cars pushed their way, east and weft, north and south, with incessant clanging of bells; followed by automobiles with resounding horns, trucks and delivery wagons with wheels reverberating on the granite.  A giant Irish policeman, who seemed in continual danger of a violent death, and wholly indifferent to it, stood between the car tracks and halted the rush from time to time, driving the people like sheep from one side to the other.  Through the doors of Ferguson’s poured two conflicting streams of humanity, and wistful groups of young women, on the way from hasty lunches, blocked the pavements and stared at the finery behind the plate-glass windows.

The rector, slowly making his way westward, permitted himself to be thrust hither and thither, halted and shoved on again as he studied the faces of the throng.  And presently he found himself pocketed before one of the exhibits of feminine interest, momentarily helpless, listening to the admiring and envious chorus of a bevy of diminutive shop-girls on the merits of a Paris gown.  It was at this moment that he perceived, pushing towards him with an air of rescue, the figure of his vestryman, Mr. Wallis Plimpton.

“Well, well, well!” he cried, as he seized Hodder by the arm and pulled him towards the curb.  “What are you doing herein the marts of trade?  Come right along with me to the Eyrie, and we’ll have something, to eat.”

The Eyrie was a famous lunch club, of limited membership, at the top of the Parr Building, where financial affairs of the first importance were discussed and settled.

Hodder explained that he had lunched at half-past twelve.

“Well, step into my office a minute.  It does me good, to see you again, upon my word, and I can’t let you get by without a little pow-wow.”

Mr. Plimpton’s trust company, in Vine Street, resembled a Greek temple.  Massive but graceful granite columns adorned its front, while within it was partitioned off with polished marble and ornamental grills.  In the rear, guarded by the desks and flanked by the compartments of various subordinates, was the president’s private sanctum, and into this holy of holies Mr. Plimpton led the way with the simple, unassuming genial air of the high priest of modern finance who understands men.  The room was eloquent almost to affectation of the system and order of great business, inasmuch as it betrayed not the least sign of a workshop.  On the dark oak desk were two leather-bound books and a polished telephone.  The walls were panelled, there was a stone fireplace with andirons set, a deep carpet spread over the tessellated floor, and three leather-padded armchairs, one of which Mr. Plimpton hospitably drew forward for the rector.  He then produced a box of cigars.