“Does he really love things?”

Rainer stared, clearly perplexed at the question.  “Rather!  Flowers and pictures especially!  Haven’t you noticed the flowers?  I suppose you think his manner’s cold; it seems so at first; but he’s really awfully keen about things.”

Faxon looked quickly at the speaker.  “Has your uncle a brother?”

“Brother?  No—­never had.  He and my mother were the only ones.”

“Or any relation who—­who looks like him?  Who might be mistaken for him?”

“Not that I ever heard of.  Does he remind you of some one?”

“Yes.”

“That’s queer.  We’ll ask him if he’s got a double.  Come on!”

But another picture had arrested Faxon, and some minutes elapsed before he and his young host reached the dining-room.  It was a large room, with the same conventionally handsome furniture and delicately grouped flowers; and Faxon’s first glance showed him that only three men were seated about the dining-table.  The man who had stood behind Mr. Lavington’s chair was not present, and no seat awaited him.

When the young men entered, Mr. Grisben was speaking, and his host, who faced the door, sat looking down at his untouched soup-plate and turning the spoon about in his small dry hand.

“It’s pretty late to call them rumors—­they were devilish close to facts when we left town this morning,” Mr. Grisben was saying, with an unexpected incisiveness of tone.

Mr. Lavington laid down his spoon and smiled interrogatively.  “Oh, facts—­what are facts!  Just the way a thing happens to look at a given minute.”

“You haven’t heard anything from town?” Mr. Grisben persisted.

“Not a syllable.  So you see ...  Balch, a little more of that petite marmite.  Mr. Faxon ... between Frank and Mr. Grisben, please.”

The dinner progressed through a series of complicated courses, ceremoniously dispensed by a stout butler attended by three tall footmen, and it was evident that Mr. Lavington took a somewhat puerile satisfaction in the pageant.  That, Faxon reflected, was probably the joint in his armor—­that and the flowers.  He had changed the subject—­not abruptly but firmly—­when the young men entered, but Faxon perceived that it still possessed the thoughts of the two elderly visitors, and Mr. Balch presently observed, in a voice that seemed to come from the last survivor down a mine-shaft:  “If it does come, it will be the biggest crash since ’93.”

Mr. Lavington looked bored but polite.  “Wall Street can stand crashes better than it could then.  It’s got a robuster constitution.”

“Yes; but—­”

“Speaking of constitutions,” Mr. Grisben intervened:  “Frank, are you taking care of yourself?”

A flush rose to young Rainer’s cheeks.

“Why, of course!  Isn’t that what I’m here for?”

“You’re here about three days in the month, aren’t you?  And the rest of the time it’s crowded restaurants and hot ballrooms in town.  I thought you were to be shipped off to New Mexico?”