The box containing his second gift made the first one seem infinitesimal. Mrs. Kemp was the recipient. She had said, characteristically, that she didn't mind doing without white bread, or sugar in her coffee, or new clothes, but it was hard not being able to have flowers. She had always had flowers in the living room until now--a standing order at the florist's. The box held two dozen American Beauties whose legs stuck out through a slit in the end. It was November, and American Beauties were fifteen dollars a dozen. There weren't enough tall vases in the house to accommodate them all. Their scarlet heads glowed in the jade-green background of the sun parlour and all over the living room and even spilled back into Belle Kemp's bedroom. Charley told her father that he ought to realise the seriousness of it. "Where's your pride and manhood, Henry Kemp! Two dozen American Beauties! It's equivalent to jewelry." Henry, eyeing them, rubbed a rueful hand over his chin, even while he grinned. "Next time I wish old Ben'd send the cash." Things had come to a bad pass with Henry Kemp. It was no longer necessary for him to say that business was not going. Business, for him, was gone. Importing was as dead as war and U-boats could make it. His house, together with many less flourishing and important ones, had closed for lack of goods. It had been wiped out so completely that there remained of it nothing to tell the tale except the exquisite collection of Venetian glass, and Bohemian liqueur sets, and French enamel opera glasses and toilette table pieces, and Hungarian china and embroidery which Belle had acquired during the years in which her husband had dealt in these precious things. Sometimes you saw Henry looking at them--picking up a fine old piece of French china or Italian glass from the buffet or dresser and turning it over to scan its familiar stamp. He knew them as an expert knows diamonds. His eye could detect any flaw in glaze or colour. Now, at fifty, Henry Kemp, for years a successful merchant and importer, was looking about for an opening. He would get something. The young men were being drawn away by the hundreds of thousands. He had been offered a position which would require his travelling for six months in the year. He had no illusions about it. On the road, a travelling salesman, at fifty. It was a bitter pill for Henry Kemp. He could not yet force himself to swallow it.