ttery to the Titan of the Street. The men
and women from whom these tributes came were the men and women whom the
world envied, and cursed--and worshiped. Hamilton Burton realized, as he
passed easily from box to box, chatting with this multi-millionaire and
that jewelled lady, that no single figure was more often signaled out by
pointing and envious fingers than his own. When he handed Mary out of
her limousine the street policeman had made the passage clear before
him. Ushers had kowtowed and the heads of fashionable women had nodded
and smiled. His way had been a march of triumph. To Hamilton Burton it
was all like the sniffing of frankincense and myrrh. His inner emotions
were those of a great tiger, purring like a house-cat.

That at his back, when he had passed on, these immaculately clad
gentlemen muttered derogatory oaths only flattered him further; their
hate, too, was a tribute to his power.

He came into Society's world as a monarch walks among the proletariat,
to receive homage and return to places where a monarch has better things
to do.

But at last the overture ended and the curtain rose. The opera had
begun.

For Paul the evening was just beginning, but for Hamilton it was done.
He stifled a yawn and rose from his seat, effecting his escape
unobserved from the box. From that point on his mind shook off the
lethargy of the incensed atmosphere and became dynamic. He looked at his
watch and found that his next appointment gave him an hour's leisure.

To his chauffeur he said, "Drive me to my mother's house."

Hannah Burton would be the only member of the household at home and with
her nephew would spend this leisure hour. He knew she would be there
because she was rarely elsewhere. The man who flashed the searchlight of
his thought into so many places at such broad angles smiled as he
thought of his Aunt Hannah, but it was a tender smile. He had
transplanted and remodeled his family--but Aunt Hannah he had been
powerless to alter.

The room where she received him was an anomalous hermitage, for in spite
of the generous comfort it reflected, there broke out here and there
jarring notes from many survivals of the old order; things from which
she refused to be parted. Upon a mantel over which hung a Gobelin
tapestry stood a tin alarm clock. It was an old companion which had once
shrilly announced that it was time to drag her rheumatic bones from bed
and take up her daily round of dusting and sweeping.