It is always the delivery that does it, as Demosthenes triply assured posterity. Mr. Goodchild's eyes had not left H. R.'s face and he had listened intently to the speech. He did not grasp in full all that H. R. had said; but what really had emptied Mr. Goodchild of anger, and filled him with an interest which was not very different from respect, was the delivery. H. R.'s faculty of knowing how to speak to a particular auditor was instinctive. It always is, with all such men, whether they are famous or obscure, orators or life-insurance agents. It is very simple when you are born with it. Mr. Goodchild, however, finding his own weapons of offense more dangerous to himself than to the foe, fell back on defense. To do so, he naturally began with a lie. That is the worst of verbal defenses. "I don't object to you personally. I--I even admit that I made a mistake in not promoting you, though I don't know what position you could have filled here that would have suited you--" "None; because you don't realize that banks need modernizing. None! Skip all that and get back to me as your son-in-law." Mr. Goodchild, thinking of his two plans which were his one hope, asked, abruptly: "Are you a man of your word?" "Since I have brains, I am. Are you?" "I object to your methods. Your speech I might overlook, though it comes hard. I am speaking plainly. Now you are known as the Sandwich Man. That would bar you from my club and from ever becoming a really--" "But that will stop. It will stop to-day. I have told Grace that within a month nobody will ever connect my name with sandwiches." "Will you agree not to marry or seek to marry my daughter, or annoy us in any way--in short, if a month from now you are still famous as the organizer of the sandwiches, will you stop trying to be my son-in-law?" "Sure thing!" promised H. R., calmly. Mr. Goodchild was distrustful and looked it, which made H. R. add, impressively: "I'll give you my word that after to-day I'll never even try to see you or Grace, or write to her, or revenge myself on you. So far as I am concerned I'll cease to exist for you. And here's my hand on it." He held out his hand in such a manner that Mr. Goodchild took it and shook it with the warmth of profound relief. Then he said, heartfully: "If you do that--" "Don't worry! It won't kill my business. I'll be just as famous as ever." "The newspapers made you. Their silence will unmake you." "Oh no!" And H. R. smiled as one smiles at a child. Mr. Goodchild almost felt as though his head had been kindly patted. "Why not?" he asked.