His situation today, he wholly and gladly admitted, had resulted from the money Fanny brought him. Until his marriage he had been confined to the Magnolia Iron Works; of which, it was conceivable, he would in time be manager, maybe, much later, part owner. But, with fresh resources, he tried fresh fields, investments, purchases, every one of which prospered. He owned or operated or controlled an extraordinary diversity of industries--a bottling works for nonalcoholic beverages, a small structural steel plant, the Eastlake daily paper--a property that returned forty per cent on his capital--a box works, purchased before the war, with an output that had leaped, almost over night, from thousands to millions, a well-known cigarette-- His energies, forever turning from routine paths and stereotyped preoccupations, took him vividly into countless phases of existence. He had accumulated nearly a million dollars and Fanny's affairs had benefited greatly; his administration of her money had been rigid: but--for whatever it was worth--his wife had, in liberating him from the company of the super-hot cupolas, made it all possible. A fist, now, was softly pounding him; and Gregory's voice threatened tears. “What is it?” Lee Randon asked. “You will have to excuse me, I was thinking.” The narrative which followed, the confused history of a two and a half dollar gold-piece finally taken from Gregory by his mother, was broken into by Helena's irrepressible contempt at his youthfulness. “He thinks the money is gone,” she explained, “because Mother put it in the bank for him. I told him when he got it there would be a lot more, but he just wouldn't listen to me. No matter what anybody said it was no good.” “Well,” Gregory inquired, “how much more?” “I don't know, silly; but packs.” “Seventy-seven dollars?” “That depends on how long you leave it in the bank,” Lee instructed him. “If you didn't ask for it for twenty years--” “But I want it next Thursday,” Gregory hotly interrupted; “won't it be any bigger then?” “He does nothing but ask and ask questions,” Helena added. Lee patted Gregory's cheek: “Don't let Helena discourage you. If I don't put the light out your mother will make me go to bed.” There were breathless delighted giggles at the thought of that absurdity. He leaned over his son. “Kiss me!” Helena cried. “Now kiss me,” Gregory echoed. “Kiss me back again--” The light went out with a sharp click, and the room was once more a glimmering darkness, blanched and cold. The ruddy faces of the children, their bright hair, even their voices, were subdued. Fanny, apparently, hadn't moved; the light at her shoulder was reflected in the cut steel buckles of her slippers; she had slight but graceful ankles. He recognized this, drawing a sheaf of reports from his brief-case; but, after a perfunctory glance, he dropped them beside him on the floor.