CHAPTER I. CONCERNING OPPORTUNITIES Peter King, please? Peter King? Peter King? With a telegram on his tray, the bellboy traversed the crowded hotel dining room, chanting his monotonous refrain, until I managed to make him realize that I owned the above name and persuaded him to hand over the message. It was short and extremely characteristic of the sender. House Party. Take afternoon train Saturday. Stay Tuesday. IG. Philip Maxwell. I was more than willing to take the designated train and looked forward with satisfaction to a few days of pleasure. Philip had a decided genius for arranging parties of congenial people, and moreover, the telegram assured me that at least one of my fellow guests would prove attractive, for the letters IG meant nothing more nor less than that Irene Gardner would be there. Though I had met this young woman only twice, she already exerted a fascination over me such as I had never before experienced. As I had hoped, she too went down to Hamilton on the afternoon train, and the four hours journey gave me an opportunity to cultivate her acquaintance more informally than at our previous meetings. This pleased me. And yet, when we were comfortably settled in our chairs and rushing swiftly through the monotonous and uninteresting landscapes of Central and Southern New Jersey, I was conscious of a certain disappointment regarding my fair companion. In the daylight, and on a railroad train, she lost the subtle charm which perhaps had been imparted by the glamour and artificial light of a ballroom, and she looked older and less ingenuous than I had thought her. And yet she was a beautiful woman. Her clear dark eyes were straightforward without being piercing. Nor were they soulful or languishing, but capable of a direct gaze that was both perceptive and responsive. Her clear -cut mouth and chin betokened not only a strong will, but a strong character and a capable nature. No, seeing my daylight there was no glamour about Irene Gardner, but the very lack of it, where I had expected to find it, interested me. She was entirely at her ease as we pursued our journey, and with a ready graceful tact adapted herself to the exigencies of the situation. Perhaps it would be more nearly true of Irene Gardner to say that she adapted situations to herself. Without seeming to dictate, she anticipated my wishes and made just such suggestions as I wished to carry out. Within an hour of our leaving New York, I found myself enjoying a cigar in the smoker, and wondered how I had managed it. When I realized that I had come there at her advice and even insistence, I gave her immediate credit for tactful cleverness, woman's most admirable trait. Yet somehow I felt a certain chagrin. To be sure, I did want to smoke, but I didn't want to be made to smoke, and to obey the suggestion unconsciously at that. There was no one in the