when he so thoroughly echoes your feelings."

She was silent a moment, and gravely said: "Take a good day's rest,
then, and come back refreshed. I'll try to like even Mr. Overman,
if he will help you. I'm going to turn over a new leaf this morning."

He laughed, kissed her, and hurried to catch the train for Babylon,
where Overman lived in his great country home.

Mark Overman was a bacholer of forty, noted for the fact that he
had but one eye and was so homely it was a joke. His friends said
he was so ugly it was fascinating, and he was constantly laughing
about it himself. He was a Wall Street banker, several times
a millionaire, famed for his wit, his wide reading, his brutally
cynical views of society, and his ridicule of modern philanthropy
and Socialistic dreams.

He was a man of average height with the heavy-set, bulldog body, face
and neck, broad, powerful hands and big feet. He had an enormous
nose, shaggy eyebrows and a bristling black moustache. But the
one striking peculiarity about him was his missing right eye. The
large heavy eyelid was drooped and closed tightly over the sightless
socket, which seemed to have sunk deep into his head. This cavern
on one side of his face gave to the other eye a strange power.
When he looked at you, it gleamed a fierce steady blaze like the
electric headlight of an engine. How he lost that eye was a secret
he guarded with grim silence, and no one was ever known to ask him
twice.

Though five years older, he was Gordon's classmate at Wabash College.