two with none. Jay knew the one named Thurston: lots of money; lots of time; and he liked Lida. Jay had met him at Lida's school.
Jay hurried, without breakfast, to meet Lew Alban's train; for at this hour, Lew would not have breakfasted. Jay meant to take Lew to the Club. It was rotten weather and not even a Chicago slave could deny it; cold, low clouds and a hanging haze of smoke which demanded street lamps and motor headlights and permitted hardly a hint of the dawn. But Ellen Powell, Jay considered, was rising to go out in it.
Art Slengel was at the train-gate. "Hello, Rountree," hailed Slengel and offered a gloved hand and smiled.
He was ten years older than Jay and entirely sure of himself; he was tall and broad, in a new, heavy, tailored overcoat, fur-lined. Sleek hair he had and pink skin, close-shaven. You knew a barber always shaved him and scented him slightly, too; he smoked, rolling between thick lips, a cigar upon which he left the band.
Jay, shaking hands, could not keep from making a Harvard estimate of him. Never would he be elected to the Institute of 1776, not even in the last ten to be taken; never, never to "Dicky" or to the "Hasty Pudding."
Slengel was making a business estimate of Jay; and business was the issue between them. Never would Jay get Lew Alban for breakfast, Slengel thought—and Jay didn't. Lew descended and was glad to see Jay and somewhat surprised. He commented upon it. "Meet all trains now, Jay?" he inquired.
