Bellair wondered a long time what the pervading dream of the father was. He had been in the office many months, had never heard the senior-mind give vent to authoritative saying in finance, literature, science or prints; and while this did not lower his estimate at all--he was sincerely eager to get at the sleeping force of this giant. Mr. Sproxley spoke long on the subject, but did not know. Mr. Hardburg said: “I have been associated with Mr. Nathan for eleven years now. The appeal of his worth is not eager and insinuating, but I have this to say--that in eleven years I have found myself slipping, slipping into a mysterious, _a different_ regard, a profounder friendliness--if one might put it that way--for Mr. Nathan, than any I have known in my whole career. The fact is I love Mr. Nathan. He is one of the sweetest spirits I ever knew.” Bellair was interested in dreamers; had a theory that dreaming was important. When he heard that a certain child was inclined to dreaming, he was apt to promise a significant future off-hand. He reflected that even Mr. Hardburg had forgotten to tell him of the tendency in Mr. Nathan’s case, but determined not to give up.... Once in the lower part of the city, he passed the firm-head--a studious little man making his way along at the edge of the walk. Bellair spoke before he thought. Mr. Nathan started up in a dazed way, appeared to recognise him with difficulty, as if there was something in the face that the hat made different. He cleared his voice and inquired with embarrassment: “Are you going to the store?” After Bellair had ceased to regret speaking, he reflected upon the word “store.” The president of a great manufacturing plant, content to be known as a tradesman--an excellent, a Quaker simplicity about that. Bellair’s particular friend in the establishment was Broadwell of the advertising-desk, a young man of his own age who was improving himself evenings and who aspired to be a publisher. But even closer to his heart was Davy Acton, one of the office-boys, who had been tested out and was not a liar. A sincere sad-faced lad of fifteen, who lived with his mother somewhere away down town. He looked up to Bellair as to a man among men, one who had achieved. This was hard to bear on the man’s part, but he was fond of the youngster and often had him over Sundays, furnishing books of his own and recommending others. Davy believed in him. This was the sensation. The only voices that were ever raised in the establishment were those of the travelling salesmen. The chief of this department, Mr. Rawter, was loud-voiced in his joviality. That was _his_ word--“Mr. Rawter is so jovial.”