Mr. Britt paused and blinked and listened.

Mr. Harnden plucked out a pencil and made believe write a screed on the palm of his hand while he talked. “’By the twining tendrils of their affections you can sway ’em to and fro,’ as the poet said, speaking of women.  I am loved in my home.  I have important prospects, now that you are backing me.”

Mr. Britt blinked more energetically, but he did not dispute.

“Another poet has said that’s it’s all right to lie for love’s sake—­or words to that effect.  I know the right line of talk to give Vona.  And I won’t have to lie such a great lot to make her know how bad off I am right now.  She has always had a lot of sympathy for me,” declared Mr. Harnden, complacently.  “I may as well cash in on it.  She won’t ruin a loving father and a happy home when she wakes up after a good cry on the wife’s shoulder and gets her second wind and understands where she’s at in this thing.  Tasper, you sit down there in a comfortable chair and let me rub on some optimism anodyne where you’re smarting the worst.”

When Mrs. Harnden came into the room a half hour later she looked promptly relieved to find Mr. Britt in such a calm mood; when she had hurried out he was acting as if he were intending to kick the furniture about the place.

“A good cry—­and all at peace, eh?—­and a new view of things in the morning?” purred the optimist in the way of query.

“She didn’t cry,” reported the mother, with a disconsolateness that did not agree with the cheering words of the reports.

“Oh, very well,” remarked Mr. Harnden, optimism unspecked.  “That shows she is taking a common-sense view and is using her head.  What says she?”

“I may as well post you on how the matter stands, Mr. Britt.  By being honest all ’round we can operate together better.”

Britt agreed by an emphatic nod.

After an inhalation which suggested the charging of an air gun, Mrs. Harnden pulled the verbal trigger.  “Vona says she is all through at the bank.”

“Oh, I know my girl,” said Mr. Harnden, airily.  “I’ll handle her when morning’s light is bright, and forgotten is the night!”

“I thought I knew my girl, too,” the mother declared, gloomily.  “But I guess I don’t.  I never saw her stiffen up like this before.  She sat and looked at me, and I felt like a cushion being jabbed by a couple of hatpins—­if there’s any such thing as a cushion having feelings.”  Mrs. Harnden, settling her flounces, a soft and sighing example of “a languishing Lydia,” was as unfortunate in her metaphor as Britt had been when he mentioned a bitter medicine.

“Tell her that I’ll pay her ten dollars more a week,” said President Britt, looking desperate.  “She mustn’t leave me in the lurch.”

“She’ll do it!  Nothing to worry about!” affirmed the father.  “And I’ll grab in as cashier till my bigger projects get started.  I’ve got a natural knack for handling money, Tasper.”