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“It all seems disgusting to me.”

His independent spirit was very attractive to the companion.

“I’d like to bluff him at his own game, the old slave-driver,” he continued.

“Oh don’t! don’t!” she quavered.

She was, in truth, anxiously awaiting the moment when Dr. Webster should see fit to give his attention to the stranger.

He laughed outright.

“Why, what makes you so afraid of him? He doesn’t beat you, does he?”

“It isn’t that. It’s the personality of the man, added to force of habit.”

“Well, Mr. Strowbridge,” cried Dr. Webster, suddenly addressing the youth, “what are you doing for this world? I hear you are just out of Harvard University. University men never amount to a row of pins.”

Strowbridge flushed and bit his lip, but controlled himself.

“Never amount to a row of pins,” roared the doctor, irritated by the haughty lifting of the young man’s head. “Don’t even get any more book-learning now, I understand. Nothing but football and boat-racing. Think that would make a fortune in a new country? Got any money of your own?”

“My father, since you ask me, is a rich man–as well as a gentleman,” said Strowbridge, with the expression of half-frightened anger of the righteously indignant, who knows that he has not the advantages of cool wit and scathing repartee, and, in consequence, may lose his head. “He inherited his money, and was not forced to go to a new country and become a savage,” he blurted out.

Mr. Holt extended himself beneath the table, and trod with terrified significance on Strowbridge’s foot. Miss Williams fluttered with terror and admiration. The other guests gazed at the youth in dismay. For the first time in the history of Webster Hall the grizzly had been bearded in his lair.

“Sir! sir!” spluttered Webster. Then he broke into a roar. “Who asked this cub here, anyway? Who said you could write and ask permission to bring your friends to my house? How dare you–how dare you–how dare you, sir, speak to me like that? Do you know, sir–“

“Oh, I know all about you,” exclaimed Strowbridge, whose young blood was now uncontrollable. “You are an ill-bred, purse-proud old tyrant, who wouldn’t be allowed to sit at a table in California if it wasn’t for your vulgar money.” He pushed back his chair and stood up. “I wish you good-day, sir. I pity you. You haven’t a friend on earth. I also apologize for my rudeness. My only excuse is that I couldn’t help it.”

And he went hurriedly from the room.

To Miss Williams the feeble light went with him. The appalled guests attacked their food with feverish energy. Dr. Webster stared stupidly at the door; then his food gave out the sound of ore in a crusher. He did not speak for some time. When he did he ignored the subject of young Strowbridge. His manner was appreciably milder–somewhat dazed–although he by no means gave evidence of being humbled to the dust. The long dinner dragged to its close. The women went up to the parlor to sip tea with Miss Webster and slide up and down the furniture. The men followed the doctor to the billiard-room. They were stupid and sleepy, but for three hours they were forced alternately to play and listen to the old man’s anecdotes of the days when he fought and felled the grizzly. He seemed particularly anxious to impress his hearers with his ancient invincibility.

That night, in the big four-posted mahogany bed in which he had been born, surrounded by the massive ugly furniture of his old New England home, Dr. Webster quietly passed away.

II

Not only the lakeside people, but all of the city with claims to social importance attended the funeral. Never had there been such an imposing array of long faces and dark attire. Miss Webster being prostrated, the companion did the honors. The dwellers on the lake occupied the post of honor at the head of the room, just beyond the expensive casket. Their faces were studies. After Miss Williams had exchanged a word with each, Strowbridge stepped forward and bent to her ear.