well, he knew the truth of Tom Moore's trite remark, "False the
light on glory's plume!"

But, straightforward and sincere, he had never watched his
own environment. The loss of his mother in his childhood and his
father's lonely struggle to retrieve his fallen fortunes had left
the boy without happy memories of boyhood, with no family history
to aid him, and the embarrassment of his dependence upon Hugh
Worthington had robbed him of the confidences incident to young
manhood.

Only in his books had he learned of the passionate, hot hearts
beating behind the silken armor of womanhood.

For who had noticed the dependent, the poor, plodding college boy?

Worthington's Detroit home was a mere social machine-shop, a place
of vanished glories during the adolescence of Miss Alice, and no
Diana had stooped to kiss the forgotten young Endymion sleeping
in the Lethe of a New York business obscurity. Clayton's life had
been gilded by few joys.

His whole nature rose up in a sudden rebellion against this "personally
conducted" career in life. "I am to be a mere hoodwinked worker
in this millionaire's treadmill. A bond slave to one of the great
Trusts which are chaining the whole American population to the
galley-oar for life.

"I must be fairly paid, decently dressed, sufficiently fed, to play
my part as a decent workman; that is all. We will see!"