the lumber business, but had withdrawn from the firm years before. Brome
Porter was now a banker, as much as he was any one thing. It was easy to
see that the pedestrian business of selling lumber would not satisfy Brome
Porter. Popularly "rated at five millions," his fortune had not come out of
lumber. Alexander Hitchcock, with all his thrift, had not put by over a
million. Banking, too, would seem to be a tame enterprise for Brome Porter.
Mines, railroads, land speculations--he had put his hand into them all
masterfully. Large of limb and awkward, with a pallid, rather stolid face,
he looked as if Chicago had laid a heavy hand upon his liver, as if the
Carlsbad pilgrimage were a yearly necessity. 'Heavy eating and drinking,
strong excitements--too many of them,' commented the professional glance of
the doctor. 'Brute force, padded superficially by civilization,' Sommers
added to himself, disliking Porter's cold eye shots at him. 'Young man,'
his little buried eyes seemed to say, 'young man, if you know what's good
for you; if you are the right sort; if you do the proper thing, we'll push
you. Everything in this world depends on being in the right carriage.'
Sommers was tempted whenever he met him to ask him for a good tip: he
seemed always to have just come from New York; and when this barbarian went
to Rome, it was for a purpose, which expressed itself sooner or later over
the stock-ticker. But the tip had not come yet.

As Sommers was reaching the end of his conversational rope with Porter,
other guests arrived. Among them was Dr. Lindsay, a famous specialist in
throat diseases. The older doctor nodded genially to Sommers with the air
of saying: 'I am so glad to find you _here_. This is the right place
for a promising young man.'

And Sommers in a flash suspected why he had been bidden: the good-natured
Miss Hitchcock wished to bring him a little closer to this influential
member of his profession.