ning."

"You shall dwell in a perfumed bridal bower."

Gray paused at the door to light one of those sixty-cent cigars and
between puffs observed: "Please assure Mr. Dietz that--his obligation
is squared and that I am--deeply touched. I shall revel in the scent of
those flowers."

That evening, when Calvin Gray, formally and faultlessly attired,
strolled into the Ajax dining room he was conscious of attracting no
little attention. For one thing, few of the other guests were in
evening dress, and also that article in the _Post_, which he had read
with a curiously detached amusement, had been of a nature to excite
general notice. The interview had jarred upon him in only one
respect--_viz_., in describing him as a "typical soldier of fortune."
No doubt the reporter had intended that phrase in the kindest spirit;
nevertheless, it implied a certain recklessness and instability of
character that did not completely harmonize with Gray's inchoate,
undeveloped banking projects. Bankers are wary of anything that sounds
adventurous--or they pretend to be. As a matter of fact, Gray had
learned enough that very day about Texas bankers to convince him that
most of them were good, game gamblers, and that a large part of the
dividends paid by most of the local institutions of finance were
derived from oil profits. However, the newspaper story, as a whole, was
such as to give him the publicity he desired, and he was well content
with it.

Its first results were prompt in coming. Even while the head waiter was
seating him, another diner arose and approached him with a smile. Gray
recognized the fellow instantly--one of that vast army of casuals that
march through every active man's life and disappear down the avenues of
forgetfulness.

After customary greetings had been exchanged, the newcomer, Coverly by
name, explained that he had read the _Post_ article not five minutes
before, and was delighted to learn how well the world had used Gray. He
was dining alone; with alacrity he accepted an invitation to join his
old friend, and straightway he launched himself upon the current of
reminiscence. In answer to Gray's inquiry, he confessed modestly enough:

"Oh, I'm not in your class, old man. I'm no 'modern Gil Blas,' as the
paper calls you. No Wall Street money barons are eating out of my hand,
and I have no international interests 'reaching from the Yukon to the
Plate,' but--I stand all right in little old Dallas. I'm the V. P. of