“Yes,” murmured Mary, “I suppose they do.”

“They do,” said Uncle Stanley.  “So I’ll call a stockholders’ meeting right away.  Meanwhile if you will sign this proxy—­”

But just as quietly Mary murmured, “I’d like to think it over.”

They looked at each other then—­those two—­with that careful, yet careless-appearing glance which two duellists might employ when some common instinct warns them that sooner or later they will cross their swords.

Uncle Stanley was the first to lower his eye.

“The law requires three directors,” he said in his more usual grumpy voice, “or I wouldn’t have bothered you.  I’ll leave it and you can sign it and send it down this afternoon.”

But Mary did neither.  Instead she went to see Judge Cutler and when the stockholders’ meeting was finally called, she attended it in person—­holding practically all the stock—­and Judge Cutler was elected to fill the vacancy.

Uncle Stanley just managed to control himself.  It took an effort, but he did it.

“We’ve got to elect a president next,” he said, trying to make a joke of it, but unable to keep the tremor of testiness out of his voice.  “Of course I’ve been here all my life—­if that counts for anything—­and I am now serving in the more or less humble capacity of vice-president—­but if the judge would like to throw up his law business and try the manufacturing end instead—­”

“No,” smiled the judge, lighting a bombshell—­though Uncle Stanley little guessed it—­“I think the position calls for some one younger than I am.  Besides, my name is Cutler, whereas for eight generations this concern has been headed by a Spencer.

“You know, Mr. Woodward, lawyers are sticklers for precedent, and it seems to me that as long as there is a Spencer left in the family, that good old name should stand at the head.

“For the office of president I therefore cast my vote in favour of the last of the Spencers—­Miss Mary—­”

That was the bombshell, and oh, but didn’t it rock Uncle Stanley back on his heels!

“Of course, if you want to make a joke of the company,” he said at last, sticking out his lower lip till it made a little shelf, although it wasn’t a very steady little shelf because it trembled as though from emotion. “’President, Mary Spencer’—­you know as well as I do what people will think when they see that on the letterhead—­”

“Unfortunately, yes,” said the judge, flashing him one of his hawk’s glances but still speaking in his gentle voice.  “Still, we can easily get around that difficulty.  We can have the letter-heads lithographed ‘President, M. Spencer.’  Then if our correspondents have imaginations, they will think that the M stands for Matthew or Mark or Michael or Malachi.  One thing sure,” he smiled at the new president, “they’ll never think of Mary.”

As in the case of the factory, Uncle Stanley had also been vice-president of the First National Bank.  A few days after the proceedings above recorded, the stockholders of the bank met to choose a new president.  There was only one vote and when it was counted, Stanley Woodward was found to be elected.