The words were there, but he could not force them from his lips. If he had but known it, there was small need of them. Her hand was resting on the sofa right beside him. He knew, because his own had touched it a moment ago; she had not taken it away. Yes, he could have told her the story without words. But at last he went on again, speaking very slowly:-- “Do you remember--I fancy you’ve not forgotten--long ago--it was the second summer vacation you spent with us, the summer after I graduated--one August evening I told you--” “Yes, I remember.” “And you told me I was mistaken; that you were perfectly sure that I didn’t have the least idea of what it meant that I had told you. You remember it, don’t you, Dick?” She nodded. He was not looking at her, but he took her silence for assent. “I’ve learned these last few months that you were right; that I was mistaken--” It was not at all remarkable that neither of them heard John Bagsbury’s steps as he neared the library door, nor that when he opened it they both started violently. John peered about in the dark, groped his way to the switch, and turned on the light. Then he saw who were sitting on the sofa. “Excuse me,” he said. “I--Alice told me you were here--” He looked at them doubtfully for a moment, and then repeating, “Excuse me,” he turned to leave the room. “Oh, don’t go!” Dick exclaimed, somewhat breathlessly, “we were waiting for you to come home. We wanted to talk with you--we turned out the light because--” Here the words seemed to stick. She turned sharply away, toward the window, as it happened, and started to rise. John followed the glance. “Don’t get up,” he said quickly. “I’ll draw the curtain.” As John turned his back, Dick looked squarely at Jack Dorlin as though challenging him to read whatever he could in her flushed face. “Talk,” she commanded under her breath. “I’ve been telling Miss Haselridge,” he said when John had returned and seated himself near them, “that I thought I’d quit the bank.” “I’m glad of that,” said the Banker. Jack had never learned how not to be disconcerted by John Bagsbury’s brief, unequivocal way of putting things. He had no wish to continue this conversation; but feeling that he owed it to Dick to keep things going somehow, he managed to give reasons for his decision. “Understand,” said John, “it’s largely on your account that I’m glad you have decided to try something else. Your work, so far as I know, has been satisfactory. The trouble is you started out too late to do much at this sort of business, and you aren’t naturally cut out for it, anyway. I think you’re right, that you can do better at something else. But you’ve done a hundred per cent better than I thought you could; and if you’ll let me say so, you’ve increased my respect for you in about the same ratio. I’ll be glad of the change on my own account, too, because I’d rather know you as a friend from the outside than as one of my employees.”