there was no shame in his sinking into that for what time he had left, as other old fellows sank into an easy-chair.  Only he wished that he could have got along without being reminded so vividly, as he would be by this trip to the business-world, of what paid for the arm-chair, supported the nice women and children.  He wished he hadn’t had to come here, to be forced to remember again that the inevitable foundation for all that was pleasant and livable in private life was the grim determination on the part of a strong man to give his strength to “taking it out of the hide” of his competitors, his workmen, and the public.  He’d had a vacation from that, and it made him appallingly depressed to take another dose of it now.  He sincerely wished that sweet Mrs. Crittenden were a widow with a small income from some impersonal source with no uncomfortable human associations with it.  He recalled with a sad cynicism the story Mrs. Crittenden had told them about the clever and forceful lawyer who had played the dirty trick on the farmer here in Ashley, and done him out of his wood-land.  She had been very much wrought up about that, the poor lady, without having the least idea that probably her husband’s business-life was full of such knifings-in-the-back, all with the purpose of making a quiet life for her and the children.

Well, there was nothing for it but to go on.  It wouldn’t last long, and Mr. Welles’ back was practised in bowing to weather he didn’t like but which passed if you waited a while.

They were going up the hall now, towards a door marked “Office,” the children scampering ahead.  The door was opening.  The tall man who stood there, nodding a welcome to them, must be Mr. Crittenden.

So that was the kind of man he was.  Nothing special about him.  Just a nice-looking American business-man, with a quiet, calm manner and a friendly face.

To the conversation which followed and which, like all such conversations, amounted to nothing at all, Mr. Welles made no contribution.  What was the use?  Mr. Bayweather and Vincent were there.  The conversation would not flag.  So he had the usual good chance of the silent person to use his eyes.  He looked mostly at Mr. Crittenden.  Well, he wasn’t so bad.  They were usually nice enough men in personal relations, business men.  This one had good eyes, very nice when he looked at the children or his wife.  They were often good family men, too.  There was something about him, however, that wasn’t just like all others.  What was it?  Not clothes.  His suit was cut off the same piece with forty million other American business-suits.  Not looks, although there was an outdoor ruddiness of skin and clearness of eye that made him look a little like a sailor.  Oh yes, Mr. Welles had it.  It was his voice.  Whenever he spoke, there was something . . . something natural about his voice, as though it didn’t ever say things he didn’t mean.

Well, for Heaven’s sake here was the old minister started off again on one of his historical spiels.  Mr. Welles glanced cautiously at Vincent to see if he were in danger of blowing up, and found him looking unexpectedly thoughtful.  He was evidently not paying the least attention to Mr. Bayweather’s account of the eighteenth century quarrel between New Hampshire and Vermont.  He was apparently thinking of something else, very hard.