The stenographer looked at him hard and swallowed visibly.  “I never dreamed I’d be fit to do anything I like half so well.  I thought when I was in the hospital that I was done for, for sure.  Captain Crittenden, if you only knew what my mother and I think about what you’ve done for . . .”

Neale dodged hastily.  “That’s all right.  That’s all right.  If you like it, that’s all that’s necessary.  And I’m not Captain any more.”

“I forget, sir,” said the other apologetically.

“Can you sit down and take a second batch right now?  I want to get through early.  Mrs. Crittenden’s going to bring some visitors to see the place this afternoon, and I’ll have to be with them more or less.”

He looked at the clock.  It was half-past three.  Marise had said she would be there about four.  He gave a calculating glance at the stack of letters.  He would never be able to get through those.  “We’ll have to get a move on,” he remarked.  “Things got pretty well piled up while I was away.”

He began to dictate rapidly, steadily, the end of a sentence clearly in his mind before he pronounced the first word.  He liked to dictate and enjoyed doing it well.  The pale young stenographer bent over his note-book, his disfigured face intent and serious.

“Turned out all right, Arthur has,” thought Neale to himself.  “I wasn’t so far off, when I thought of the business college for him.”  Then he applied himself single-mindedly to his dictation, taking up one letter after another, with hardly a pause in his voice.  But for all his diligence, he had not come to the bottom of the pile when four o’clock struck; nor ten minutes later when, glancing out of the window, he saw Marise and the children with Mr. Bayweather and the two other men coming across the mill-yard.  Evidently Mr. Bayweather had dropped in just as they were going to start and had come along.  He stopped dictating and looked at the group with a certain interest.  Marise and the children had had a good deal to say yesterday about the newcomers to Crittenden’s.

It seemed to him that the impression he had received of them had been as inaccurate as such second-hand impressions were apt to be.  The older man was just like any elderly business man, for all he could see, nothing so especially attractive about him, although Marise had said in her ardent way that he was “the sort of old American you love on sight, the kind that makes you home-sick when you meet him in Europe.”  And as for Mr. Marsh, he couldn’t see any signs of his being such a record-breaking live-wire as they had all said.  He walked along quietly enough, and was evidently as resigned as any of them to letting Mr. Bayweather do all the talking.  On the other hand, none of them had told him what a striking-looking fellow he was, so tall, and with such a bold carriage of that round dark head.

“Here they come, Arthur,” he remarked.  “No more time.  But I’ll try to squeeze in a minute or two, while they are here, to finish up these last ones.”