offered by chance of making acquaintances, he coolly rejected them.
Banneker did not desire to know people--yet. When he should arrive at
the point of knowing them, it must be upon his terms, not theirs.

It was on one of his Monday evenings of splendor that a misadventure of
the sort which he had long foreboded, befell him. Sherry's was crowded,
and a few tables away Banneker caught sight of Herbert Cressey, dining
with a mixed party of a dozen. Presently Cressey came over.

"What have you been doing with yourself?" he asked, shaking hands.
"Haven't seen you for months."

"Working," replied Banneker. "Sit down and have a cocktail. Two, Jules,"
he added to the attentive waiter.

"I guess they can spare me for five minutes," agreed Cressey, glancing
back at his forsaken place. "This isn't what you call work, though, is
it?"

"Hardly. This is my day off."

"Oh! And how goes the job?"

"Well enough."

"I'd think so," commented the other, taking in the general effect of
Banneker's easy habituation to the standards of the restaurant. "You
don't own this place, do you?" he added.

From another member of the world which had inherited or captured