Galusha walked slowly across the room to the chair by the window, and, sitting down, continued to stare hopelessly at the letter in his hand.  He read it for the second time, but this rereading brought no comfort whatever.  Rather, it served to bring home to him the hard realities of the whole wretched affair.  Cousin Gussie’s interest was what he had banked on, and that interest was absolutely unapproachable.  To write Minor at the Boston office was a possibility, of course, but, in his present frame of mind Galusha felt no hope that such a proceeding would help.  Thomas had written what amounted to that very thing; Thomas was “practically certain” that Minor’s views would agree with his.  And, besides, to write Minor meant another long wait, and Martha Phipps must be very close to her limit of waiting.  How could he summon the courage to descend to the sitting room and tell her that she must prepare for another period of waiting, with almost certain disappointment at the end?

A temperament like Galusha Bangs’ is capable of soaring to the heights and descending to the depths.  Just now the elevator was going down, and down it continued to go to the very subcellar.  It was dark in that subcellar, not a ray of light anywhere.  Galusha realized now, or thought he did, that all his great scheme for helping Martha to dispose of her Development shares had been based upon nothing substantial, nothing but rainbow-tinted hopes which, in turn, were based upon nothing but wishes.  Omitting the hopes and wishes, what was there left?  Just what the president of the Trumet Trust Company had told Martha and what Raish Pulcifer, when angered into truthtelling, had told him.  That is, that the shares of the Wellmouth Development Company might be worth something some day, but that now they were worth nothing, because no one would buy them.

Yes . . . yes, that was the truth. . . .  But how could he go down to the sitting room and tell Martha Phipps that truth, having already told her so much that was quite different?

If she would only let him lend her the five thousand dollars, or whatever it was.  He did not know how much Cousin Gussie was taking care of for him at present, but there had been a large sum at the time of Aunt Clarissa’s death.  He remembered that the figures had quite frightened him then.  He had not thought much about them since, because they did not interest him.  He always had enough for his needs and more than enough, and dividends, and interests, and investments and all such things bored him and made him nervous.  But, now that he was interested in an investment—­Martha Phipps’ investment—­it brought home to him the undisputable fact that he, Galusha Bangs, had plenty of money to lend, if he wished to lend it.

And if Cousin Gussie, or Cousin Gussie’s representatives, would let him have it for such a purpose!  Cousin Gussie always made such an unpleasant disturbance when he expressed a desire for any of his money, asked so many embarrassing questions as to what was to be done with it, and the like.  If he should go now and ask for five thousand dollars to lend Martha Phipps, what . . .