“So, if I consult with you--daily--and act upon your advice, I’m sure to have the right kind of a paper, too?... And in that case you would cancel the chattel mortgage?” “To be sure--exactly.” “But if, on the contrary, I should decide to run this paper myself, as I see fit, without taking advice from anybody, and printing what I think should be printed?” Mr. Fownes pondered this briefly. “Then,” he said, “I should have to wait--and determine how sound your judgment is.... I fear your sympathies--natural sympathies for a young woman--sway you.... Er ... as in the instance of this young man. His letter was not kindly, not considerate. It hurt people’s feelings. Then, it appears, you have hired him.... I hope that step may be reconsidered.... Gibeon--found this young man unsatisfactory.” “Would that have anything to do with--the chattel mortgage?” “It might--it might.” “My uncle always followed your advice?” “Ah ... implicitly.” “He did not grow rich,” said Carmel. “He lived,” said Mr. Fownes, and blinked his little eyes as he turned his placid gaze full upon her. “I think you have made yourself clear, Mr. Fownes. I shall think over what you have said--and you will know my decision.” “Consider well--er--from all angles.... Mountain came to Mohammed....” He commenced to warp himself away from the railing, and slowly, ponderously, testing the security of each foot before he trusted his weight to it, he moved toward the door. There he paused, turned his bulk, the whole of him, for it was quite impossible for him to turn his head without his shoulders going along with it, and smiled the most placid smile Carmel ever saw. “Er--I am a widower,” he said.... Carmel remained standing, her eyes following him as he turned up the street. “What’s underneath it all?” she said, aloud. “What’s it all about?” Evan Pell turned in his chair and said, sharply, “Textbooks have this merit at least--they can instruct in the simplest rules of logic.” “The fatuous idiot,” said Carmel. “It must be a great satisfaction,” said Evan, dryly, “to understand human beings so thoroughly.” “What do you mean?” “I was admiring,” said Evan, “the unerring certainty with which you arrived at Mr. Fownes’s true character.” She peered at him, searching for a trace of irony, but his face was innocent, bland. “Why does a wealthy man like Mr. Fownes--a powerful man--give a thought to so insignificant a thing as this paper?” “An interesting speculation--provided your premises are true.” “What premises?” “Your major premise, so to speak--wealth.” “Why, is he not rich?” “All the indications bear you out.” “He owns mills, and miles of timberland.” “Um!... Am I to remain in your employ--or shall you accept the--advice--of Mr. Fownes?”