o time, his ring made an
extremely modest showing. She seemed quite unaware of the discrepancy,
but he was aware of it.

On an evening later in the week Mrs. Fosdick gave a reception. "Quite
an informal affair," she said, in announcing her intention. "Just a few
intimate friends to meet Mr. Speranza, that is all. Mostly lovers of
literature--discerning people, if I may say so."

The quite informal affair looked quite formidably formal to Albert. The
few intimate friends were many, so it seemed to him. There was still
enough of the former Albert Speranza left in his make-up to prevent
his appearing in the least distressed or ill at ease. He was, as he
had always been when in the public eye, even as far back as the school
dancing-classes with the Misses Bradshaw's young ladies, perfectly
self-possessed, charmingly polite, absolutely self-assured. And his good
looks had not suffered during his years of imprisonment and suffering.
He was no longer a handsome boy, but he was an extraordinarily
attractive and distinguished man.

Mrs. Fosdick marked his manner and appearance and breathed a sigh of
satisfaction. Madeline noted them. Her young friends of the sex noted
them and whispered and looked approval. What the young men thought does
not matter so much, perhaps. One of these was the Captain Blanchard, of
whom Madeline had written and spoken. He was a tall, athletic chap,
who looked well in his uniform, and whose face was that of a healthy,
clean-living and clean-thinking young American. He and Albert shook
hands and looked each other over. Albert decided he should like
Blanchard if he knew him better. The captain was not talkative; in fact,
he seemed rather taciturn. Maids and matrons gushed when presented to
the lion of the evening. It scarcely seemed possible that they were
actually meeting the author of The Lances of Dawn. That wonderful book!
Those wonderful poems! "How CAN you write them, Mr. Speranza?" "When do
your best inspirations come, Mr. Speranza?" "Oh, if I could write as
you do I should walk on air." The matron who breathed the last-quoted
ecstasy was distinctly weighty; the mental picture of her pedestrian
trip through the atmosphere was interesting. Albert's hand was patted by
the elderly spinsters, young women's eyes lifted soulful glances to his.

It was the sort of thing he would have revelled in three or four years
earlier. Exactly the sort of thing he had dreamed of when the majority
of the poems th