it was not at all a mystery now, what he was.  As in the case of Waterman & Company, he sized up these men shrewdly, judging some to be weak, some foolish, some clever, some slow, but in the main all small-minded or deficient because they were agents, tools, or gamblers.  A man, a real man, must never be an agent, a tool, or a gambler—­acting for himself or for others—­he must employ such.  A real man—­a financier—­was never a tool.  He used tools.  He created.  He led.

Clearly, very clearly, at nineteen, twenty, and twenty-one years of age, he saw all this, but he was not quite ready yet to do anything about it.  He was certain, however, that his day would come.

Chapter VII

In the meantime, his interest in Mrs. Semple had been secretly and strangely growing.  When he received an invitation to call at the Semple home, he accepted with a great deal of pleasure.  Their house was located not so very far from his own, on North Front Street, in the neighborhood of what is now known as No. 956.  It had, in summer, quite a wealth of green leaves and vines.  The little side porch which ornamented its south wall commanded a charming view of the river, and all the windows and doors were topped with lunettes of small-paned glass.  The interior of the house was not as pleasing as he would have had it.  Artistic impressiveness, as to the furniture at least, was wanting, although it was new and good.  The pictures were—­well, simply pictures.  There were no books to speak of—­the Bible, a few current novels, some of the more significant histories, and a collection of antiquated odds and ends in the shape of books inherited from relatives.  The china was good—­of a delicate pattern.  The carpets and wall-paper were too high in key.  So it went.  Still, the personality of Lillian Semple was worth something, for she was really pleasing to look upon, making a picture wherever she stood or sat.

There were no children—­a dispensation of sex conditions which had nothing to do with her, for she longed to have them.  She was without any notable experience in social life, except such as had come to the Wiggin family, of which she was a member—­relatives and a few neighborhood friends visiting.  Lillian Wiggin, that was her maiden name—­had two brothers and one sister, all living in Philadelphia and all married at this time.  They thought she had done very well in her marriage.

It could not be said that she had wildly loved Mr. Semple at any time.  Although she had cheerfully married him, he was not the kind of man who could arouse a notable passion in any woman.  He was practical, methodic, orderly.  His shoe store was a good one—­well-stocked with styles reflecting the current tastes and a model of cleanliness and what one might term pleasing brightness.  He loved to talk, when he talked at all, of shoe manufacturing, the development of lasts and styles.  The ready-made shoe—­machine-made to a certain extent—­was just coming into its own slowly, and outside of these, supplies of which he kept, he employed bench-making shoemakers, satisfying his customers with personal measurements and making the shoes to order.