They told him so. And he had not shown himself grateful. And _still_ they meant to be “good” to him. They were “mighty nice young men.” * * * * * Nathaniel Mar saw clearly by the time the “notice” was up, that he lagged superfluous. There was no opening for him anywhere. The first morning that he had no right to go down to the bank was one of the most difficult he had known. He went out just the same, at precisely the same moment, and came in at the usual time. No one knew where he had spent those hours, but he looked tired and ill when he sat down to the midday meal. After it was over, he said he thought he would “go up and lie down.” He had never done such a thing before in his life, at that hour of the day. The following mornings he spent at his writing-table in the dining-room, and although there were no screaming children there now, and the room was bright and pretty, he sat miserably, day after day, turning over old letters and papers, till in despair he would get up and take down a book to read. But his thoughts were all “down at the bank.” Mrs. Mar dashed in and out, called brisk directions to the Chinaman, who presided now in the kitchen, and when there was nothing else to do, she would fly at the sewing-machine. This appeared to be the kind of mechanism which was worked with the whole human body. The hands traveling briskly along with the moving seam, head going like a mandarin’s, knees up, knees down, Mrs. Mar pedaled and buzzed away. Her husband seldom spoke. Having retired within himself directly after the breakfast things were cleared away, he seemed to be averse from making the smallest movement while his wife was in the room. He sat there intensely still, even turning the leaf of his book only at long intervals, surreptitiously, without a sound. It was as though, by a death-like stillness, he should prove that he was not there. He was really down at the bank—his motionlessness seemed to say. As if Mrs. Mar divined this mental ruse of his, and felt a need to unmask it, she would look at him sideways, and “What are you doing?” she would ask briskly. “Reading.” “That old Franklin again? Why, you’ve read it three or four times already!” No answer. “Why don’t you get something up-to-date from the library?” Still no response. “Content just to sit _and sit_!” she would comment inwardly. Then aloud, “Don’t they want a manager up at Smithson’s?” “No.” “Why don’t you try for the secretaryship of the New Pickwick?” “Monty Fellowes has got it.” “Ah, well, I suppose Monty Fellowes went the length of asking for it.” Nathaniel Mar had also gone that length, though the post was beneath a man of his powers. But he could not tell over again at home the tale of his failures. Better she should think he hadn’t tried. But, oh, the very look of him sat upon her spirit, and still she looked.