me of the market dull and commonplace, seeking a new
occupation for his energies; became during the war next to the
President, the most powerful man in Washington; emerged from the
war, which wrecked most reputations, with a large measure of
credit, prepared by the amazing past for an equally amazing future.
A career like that makes it impossible for the man who knows it
best not to expect anything. Why not the "Disraeli of America?"--a
phrase he once, rather confidentially, employed concerning his
anticipated future.

Did you ever see a portrait bust smiling, not softly with the eyes
or with a slight relaxation of the mouth, but firmly, definitely,
lastingly smiling, with some inward source of satisfaction? Look at
Jo Davidson's bust of Baruch, among the famous men at the Peace
Conference.

I once saw the various sketches in clay that went to the making of
that portrait--the subject was proving elusive to the sculptor.
There were two obvious traits to be represented; the unusual knot
in the brow between the eyes and the smile, without which it was
evident that you had not Baruch. The extraordinary concentration in
the forehead was easy enough to transfer to clay; but the smile
kept defying the artist. When a smile was traced in the clay it
softened the face out of character, destroyed that intensity which
the central massing of the brow denoted; and when the smile was
deleted the face lost all its brilliance, became merely intense,
concentrated, racial, acquisitive perhaps, clearly not Mr. Baruch's
face. Ultimately the sculptor succeeded in wedding a smile to that
brow, and the bust went on exhibition with those of Wilson, Foch,
House, Clemenceau, and the others; but the union was never more
than a compromise, a marriage of convenience for the artist.

That smile is as inevitable a part of Baruch as his engaging
naivete in talking about himself. It is always there, brilliant,
unrelated to circumstances. It does not spring from a sense of
humor,--Mr. Baruch, like the rest of the successful, has not a
marked sense of humor; a sense of the irony of fate he has,
perhaps, but not more. It does not denote gaiety, nor sympathy, nor
satire; it is not kind nor yet unkind; it does not relax the
features, which remain tense as ever even when smiling; it suggests
satisfaction, self-confidence, and a secret inner source of
contentment. It is with Mr. Baruch when he is tired, or ought to be
tired; the romance of Baruch is an in