“That’s what I’d like, all right.  And remember if I ask anything you don’t want to talk about . . .”  He referred evidently to Neale’s impatience of a few minutes ago.

“There aren’t any trade secrets in the wood-working business,” said Neale, laughing.  “Better come along and see our drying-room as we talk.  We’ve had to make some concession to modern haste and use kiln-drying, although I season first in the old way as long as possible.”  They stepped out of the door and started across the mill-yard.

Mr. Welles said with a very faint smile in the corner of his pale old lips, “I don’t believe you want to show me any of this, Mr. Crittenden.  And honestly that isn’t what interests me about it.  I wouldn’t know a drying-room from a steam-laundry.”

Neale stopped short, and surveyed his companion with amusement and admiration.  “Good for you!” he cried.  “Tell the truth and shame the devil and set an example to all honest men.  Mr. Welles, you have my esteem.”

The old man had a shy smile at this.  “I don’t tell the truth that way to everybody,” he said demurely.

Neale liked him more and more.  “Sir, I am yours to command,” he said, sitting down on the steps, “ask ahead!”

Mr. Welles turned serious, and hesitated.  “Mr. Bayweather said . . .”  He began and looked anxiously at Neale.

“I won’t bite even if he did,” Neale reassured him.

Mr. Welles looked at him with the pleasantest expression in his eyes.  “It’s a great relief to find that we can get on with one another,” he said, “for I must admit to you that I have fallen a complete victim to Mrs. Crittenden.  I . . .  I love your wife.”  He brought it out with a quaint, humorous roundness.

“You can’t get up any discussion with me about that,” said Neale.  “I do myself.”

They both laughed, and Mr. Welles said, “But you see, caring such a lot about her, it was a matter of great importance to me what kind of husband she had.  I find actually seeing you very exciting.”

“You’re the first who ever found it so, I’m sure,” said Neale, amused at the idea.

“But it wasn’t this I wanted to say,” said Mr. Welles.  He went back and said again, “Mr. Bayweather said your idea of business is service, like a doctor’s?”

Neale winced at the Bayweather priggishness of this way of putting it, but remembering his remorse for his earlier brusqueness, he restrained himself to good humor and the admission, “Making allowance for ministerial jargon, that’s something like a fair statement.”

He was astonished at the seriousness with which Mr. Welles took this.  What was it to him?  The old man looked at him, deeply, unaccountably, evidently entirely at a loss.  “Mr. Crittenden,” he said abruptly, “to speak right out, that sounded to me like the notion of a nice idealistic woman, who has never been in business.  You see I’ve been in a business office all my life!”