“And yet how extremely all-pervading that unit can feel sometimes,” Carroll said, with a laugh.

He was silent again, puffing at his cigar, and again Anderson, leaning back opposite and also smoking, wondered why he was there.  Then Carroll removed his cigar and spoke.  His voice was a little constrained, but he looked at Anderson full in the face.

“Mr. Anderson,” he said, “I want to know if you will kindly tell me how much I owe you, for I am one of the consumers of butter and eggs.”

Anderson continued to smoke a second before answering.  “I cannot possibly tell you here, Mr. Carroll,” he replied then.

“Of course I know I should have written and asked for the bill,” Carroll said, “but I knew some had been paid, and—­you have been most kind, and—­”

Anderson waited.

“In short,” said Carroll, speaking quickly and brusquely, “I am under a cloud here, and—­your mother called to see my daughter this afternoon, and I thought that possibly you would pardon me if I put it all on a little different basis.”

Carroll stopped, and again Anderson waited.  He was becoming more and more puzzled.

Then Carroll spoke quite to the point.  “I could have sent for the bill which you have so generously not sent, which you have so generously allowed my poor, little daughter to think was settled,” said he, “but if you had sent it I simply could not have paid it.  I could have written you what I wished to say, but I thought I could say it better.  I wish to say to you that I shall be obliged if you will let me know the extent of my indebtedness to you, and if you will accept my note for six months.”

“Very well,” said Anderson, gravely.

“If you will have the bill made out and sent me to-morrow, I will send you my note by return mail,” said Carroll.

“Very well, Mr. Carroll,” replied Anderson.

Carroll arose to go.  “You have a pleasant home here, Mr. Anderson,” he said, looking around the room with its air of old-fashioned comfort, even state.

“It has always seemed pleasant to me,” said Anderson.  An odd, kindly feeling for Carroll overcame him.  He extended his hand.  “I am glad you called, Captain Carroll,” he said.  He hesitated a moment.  Then he added:  “You will necessarily be lonely with your family away.  If you would come in again—­”

“I cannot leave my daughter alone much,” Carroll answered, “but otherwise I should be glad to.  Thank you.”  He looked at Anderson with evident hesitation.  There was something apparently which he was about to say, but doubted the wisdom of saying it.

“Your daughter is still with you?” Anderson said.

“Yes.”

Then Anderson hesitated a second.  Then he spoke.  “Would you allow me to call upon your daughter, Captain Carroll?” he asked, bluntly.

Carroll’s face paled as he looked at him.  “On my daughter?”

“Yes.  Captain Carroll, will you be seated again for a few minutes.  I have something I would like to say to you.”