Not that marriage was of importance to him yet, except as a thing to
be avoided until some dim future. Women had not assumed consequence
to him; his relations with them had been scant surface relations.
They were creatures who did or did not please the eye, who did or did
not dance well, who did or did not amuse one. That was all. He was
only twenty-three.

Rangar, his father's secretary, and the man who stood as shield
between Bonbright Foote VI and unpleasant contacts with his business
and the world's business, entered. Rangar was a capable man whose
place as secretary to the head of the business did not measure his
importance in the organization. Another man of his abilities and
opportunity and position would have carried the title of general
manager or vice president--something respect-carrying. As for Rangar,
he was content. He drew the salary that would have accompanied those
other titles, possessed in an indirect sort of way the authority, and
yet managed to remain disentangled from the responsibilities. Had he
suddenly vanished the elder Foote would have been left suspended in
rarefied heights between heaven and his business, lacking direct
contact with the mills and machine shops and foundries; yet,
doubtless, would have been unable to realize that the loss of Rangar
had left him so. Rangar was a competent, efficient man, if peculiar
in his ambitions.

"Your father," said he, "has asked me to show you through the plant."

"Thank you--yes," said Bonbright, rising.

They went out, passing from the old, the family, wing of the office
building, into the larger, newer, general offices, made necessary by