room; pipes were hurriedly lighted, and each guest turned his
chair so as to face the Chief, who was now on his feet.

As he stood erect, one hand behind his back, the other stretched
toward the table in his appeal for silence, I thought for the
hundredth time how kind his fifty years had been to him; how
tightly knit his figure; how well his clothes became him. A
handsome, well-groomed man at all times and in any costume--but
never so handsome or so well groomed as in evening dress.
Everything in his make-up helped: the broad, square shoulders,
arms held close to his side; flat waist; incurving back and narrow
hips. His well-modelled, aristocratic head, too, seemed to gain
increased distinction when it rose clear from a white shirt-front
which served as a kind of marble pedestal for his sculptured head.
There was, moreover, in his every move and look, that quality of
transparent sincerity which always won him friends at sight. "If
men's faces are clocks," Peter always said, "Holker's is fitted
with a glass dial. You can not only see what time it is, but you
can see the wheels that move his heart."

He was about to speak now, his eyes roaming the room waiting for
the last man to be still. No fumbling of glasses or rearranging of
napkin, but erect, with a certain fearless air that was as much a
part of his nature as was his genius. Beginning in a clear,
distinct voice which reached every ear in the room, he told them
first how welcome they were. How great an honor it was for him to
have them so close to him--so close that he could look into all
their faces with one glance; not only those who came from a
distance but those of his personal staff, to whom really the
success of the year's work had been due. As for himself, he was,