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 so well and knew a little about Lida and how well he had liked Lida, and who had read Lida's telegram.

Jay forced his attention to the talk at his own table. The man beside him, pouring syrup over corncakes, talked business to a husband and wife, opposite. Mrs. Diblon was the wife and the husband was "Diblon" to the man beside Jay who was, importantly, "Mr. Polk" to them both.

He was no more than thirty, rather younger than Diblon; but Diblon was playing up to him, constantly, and so was Mrs. Diblon, who was hardly older than the college girls. There was not enough difference in the ages of these three, compared to the college people, to account for the difference in the feeling of this table. It was because it was business here.

To say that, thought Jay as he ordered, was merely to make a name. What was it about business which made the air of this table so uneasy and unnatural and patronizing and patronized?

Diblon was a seller of something; and Mr. Polk purchased huge quantities of that same thing. This became plain; this was the trouble with the table. Mr. Polk held the fate—at least, the present prosperity—of the Diblons in his important hands; so they, husband and wife, yessed him, smiled, laughed, listened and agreed and praised to flatter him.

Last week, or even two days ago, Jay Rountree would never have bothered about this; or noticed it. It would have been nothing in his life; he would have ignored it to listen to the talk at the college tables and to cut in