December, he looked it every inch. It spoke in every line of his
clean-cut, self-contained face, with its straight, thin nose, closely
drawn mouth, strong chin and clear gray eyes; in every movement of his
erect, trim, well-groomed figure; in every detail of his faultless
attire; in every tone of his assured, assertive, incisive speech. As
some one said of him, he always looked as if he had just been ironed.

He used to be spoken of as "a man of parts;" now he was spoken of as "a
man of wealth--a capitalist."

Not that he was as successful as he intended to be; but the way was all
clear and shining before him now. It was now simply a matter of time. He
could no more help going on to further heights of success than his
"gilt-edged" securities, stored in thick parcels in his safe-deposit
boxes, could help bearing interest.

He contemplated the situation this snowy evening with a deep serenity
that brought a transient gleam of light to his somewhat cold face.

He knew he was successful by the silent envy with which his
acquaintances regarded him; by the respect with which he was treated and
his opinion was received at the different Boards, of which he was now an
influential member, by men who fifteen years ago hardly knew of his
existence. He knew it by the numbers of invitations to the most
fashionable houses which crowded his library table; by the familiar and
jovial air with which presidents and magnates of big corporations, who
could on a moment's notice change from warmth--temperate warmth--to ice,
greeted him; and by the cajoling speeches with which fashionable mammas
with unmarried daughters of a certain or uncertain age rallied him about
his big, empty house on a fashionable street, and his handsome dinners,