“Commercially honest,” he answered. “In any sort of business a man finds out before long that that’s a pretty complicated question. To people who live as you do, honesty must come pretty easily. But it takes a lot more than good intentions to make an honest--banker, for instance.” “That’s the first time I thought of honesty as an accomplishment,” laughed Dick. “Well,” said John Bagsbury, with a smile, “I mean all right; but if it came to a pinch, I don’t know how far I could bet on my own.” The door-bell had rung while they were talking, and John glanced into the hall to see who the visitors were. “Hello!” he exclaimed, “there are the Sponleys. Come in!” He hurried from the room to welcome them. “Well, we haven’t told him,” said Jack. “Come on, let’s escape somewhere.” Alice Bagsbury had heard the voices and was coming down the stairs, so that there was a momentary delay in the hall. “If you don’t hurry, we’ll surely get cut off,” Jack continued eagerly. “Where shall we go? Into the dining room?” But instead of answering him, Dick bowed, smiling to some one behind him, and he heard a voice saying, “Good evening, Miss Haselridge.” He turned around and bowed to Mrs. Sponley with what appearance of cordiality he could muster. He was puzzled rather than annoyed. He had never known Dick to be slow before. Yet certainly they should have been able to escape easily. “I came to talk over a little business with John,” said Sponley. “I don’t know why Harriet came.” “And I came to--to hear Mr. Dorlin play; I had an intuition that he’d be here.” Harriet laughed as she spoke and turned to Jack. “Will you?” she asked. “Come, let’s go into the drawing-room.” Musically, Jack was something of a classicist; but to-night, after he had dug his fingers into one or two vicious arpeggios, he began playing some very modern Russian music--music which suggests to the untutored ear the frightful possibility that the pianist is playing in the wrong key with his left hand. Jack enjoyed it; it served admirably as a vent to his irritation. What an evening he had had of it! Interrupted by John Bagsbury just as he was telling Dick--well, the most important thing one could tell a girl, and then interrupted by the Sponleys, just as he thought he had it on the tip of his tongue to tell John about Curtin. Mrs. Sponley was the worst offender: by her unseemly haste into the library she had cut off his retreat with Dick; then she had stranded him at the piano; and now, instead of talking to Mrs. Bagsbury, she was monopolizing Dick at the far side of the room. As he thought of his grievances, his interpretation of the very modern Russian music grew more and more enthusiastic, until it seemed fairly inspired. When he finished, there was a request for more; but it was faint.