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necktie. He had that air of measured deliberation which eventually always covered the features and the postures of bank officers and corporation lawyers. He was slender and athletic, almost young-looking considering that he was close to sixty-five, though Charles could never think of him as having been a young man. Charles always thought of him as unchanging, a measured, deliberate, constant quantity, like a Greek letter in a mathematical formula.
    â€œI didn’t see you on the train,” Mr. Burton said.
    Charles glanced at Roger Blakesley’s desk. It was an opportunity but it was also a time to be careful.
    â€œI didn’t see you either,” Charles said. “Mrs. Whitaker is after me.”
    It was better to do it that way. It did no harm to have him know about Mrs. Whitaker.
    â€œWell, as long as she’s after you and not me,” Mr. Burton said. “We’ll see you at dinner Friday, won’t we?”
    â€œYou can count on it,” Charles said. “Absolutely,” and he laughed and Anthony Burton laughed.
    â€œYes,” Mr. Burton said, “I suppose we can, Charley. How are Nancy and the children?”
    â€œThey’re wonderful,” Charles said. “They keep me out of trouble.”
    â€œNancy’s a great girl,” Mr. Burton said. “You boys are getting together at eleven, aren’t you? I’ll be there.”
    He smiled and nodded and walked over to his desk in the corner.
    Charles could not help but wonder whether Mr. Burton had weighed every word of that conversation as carefully as he had. For a second he wondered whether there might be some implication between the lines, but he could not think of any. It had simply been a bland routine conversation, friendly and nothing more. It could not very well have been anything else with Roger’s desk right beside his own.
    â€œMrs. Whitaker’s on the telephone now,” Miss Marble said, and Charles picked up the desk telephone, speaking softly as one always did in the bank.
    â€œGood morning, Mrs. Whitaker. This is Mr. Gray.”
    He could recognize a particular tone in her voice. It was the gracious, informal tone that she was in the habit of using when she wanted to make a pleasant impression on people who handled her affairs. It kept one at arm’s length, though at the same time giving a pretty little picture of her capacities for universal understanding, democracy, and kindliness.
    â€œOh, Mr. Gray,” he heard her say, “it’s so nice to hear your voice.”
    It was difficult for Charles to respond properly to this remark because he was not at all glad to hear Mrs. Whitaker’s and he had heard it a great deal lately, yet he had learned long ago never to be brief with a large depositor, particularly when the Chase, the Guaranty, and the National City were all making overtures for the Whitaker account.
    â€œYou sound well and happy, Mrs. Whitaker,” Charles said.
    Occasionally he was astonished at his own adaptability. He never sounded like himself when he spoke in those hushed tones at his desk. He sounded instead like a doctor or a diplomat, and now he was also a loyal friend of the Whitaker family, who could allow himself the least bit of jovial familiarity.
    â€œHewett and I are so dreadfully worried, Mr. Gray,” Mrs. Whitaker said. “That’s why it’s so nice to hear your voice.”
    He could not tell whether it was a further act of graciousness or a lapse of memory that made her refer to Mr. Whitaker as Hewett and he could not recall that she had ever done such a thing before.
    â€œWhy, I’m sorry,” Charles said. “What have you to be worried about?”
    That was it. What did she have to be worried about?
    â€œWe have to sell something, Mr. Gray,” Mrs. Whitaker said. “We have to sell something right away. We literally haven’t got a cent of money.”
    At least he was able to smile since Mrs.