The first time this was asked, he had hesitated long before he answered. During the thirty years that had elapsed since he built banks for his own children, he had learned that one did not talk of money now, especially before the young. One used a euphemism for it. The proper euphemism had been slow to spring into his mind, but it had sprung at last; and they had placed it in the bank. It was a very little china dog. They placed it in the entrance hall. The small voice said: “What is it guarding?” He had answered: “The bank, my darling.” The small voice murmured: “But nobody could steal the bank.” Looking at the little euphemism, he had frowned. It lacked completeness as a symbol. For a moment he had a wild desire to put a sixpence down, and end the matter. Two small knees wriggled against his back, arms tightened round his neck, a chin rubbed itself impatiently against his whisker. He muttered hastily: “But they could steal the papers.” “What papers?” “The wills, and deeds, and--and cheques.” “Where are they?” “In the bank.” “I don’t see them.” “They’re in a cupboard.” “What are they for?” “For--for grown-up people.” “Are they to play with?” “NO!” “Why is he guarding them?” “So that--so that everybody can always have enough to eat.” “Everybody?” “Everybody.” “Me, too?” “Yes, my darling; you, of course.” Locked in each other’s arms they looked down sidelong at the little euphemism. The small voice said: “Now that _he’s_ there, they’re safe, aren’t they?” “Quite safe.”