Five years after he entered the bank, he was occupying the chair and desk on the left side of the door where his father sat when George began his career on the adding machine in the cage. Mr. Cutter, Senior, was still the nominal president, but he had a finer desk and more comfortable, less businesslike chair in the rear of his son. He was now a fat old man, drooling down to a heavy old age. He was merely president from force of habit. He did nothing but watch, with slumberous pride, his son paw the markets, reach out, speculate, risk and win, make a name for himself in the financial world. But in 1913 all this was ancient history. The young wolf had been just beginning then to get a toothhold. Now he had arrived. He had “interests” in the big corporations. When he became president, after the death of his father, the first thing he did was to sell this small building to a local trust company and build a finer, larger place for his bank. Here he had an office, off the directors’ room in the rear, as magnificent and grave as a sanctuary. And it was so proudly private that there was no spangled glass door leading to it visible to the vulgar public eye. Capitalists and promoters visited him here, but the regular customers of the bank rarely saw him except by accident when he issued from this office, hatted, spatted, coated, carrying a cane hooked over his arm, and stepping briskly across the lobby through the door to where his car stood and shone against the curb. In that case their eyes followed him. And if these eyes belonged to women, of whatever age, they were likely to exclaim, breathe or think, “What a handsome man!” He was more than handsome, a “presence,” almost a perfect imitation of elegance. He was the kind of man who kept his years under foot. He trod them down with so much swiftness and power in this business of getting on that they had not marked him. His face was smooth, his red hair still opulent, his eyes brilliant, masterful. When he came in or went out or passed by, they were always fixed on something straight ahead, as if you were not there, anxious to catch his glance and have the honor of speaking to him. Probably you wanted to remind him of how well you remembered when he started to work in the old bank. And you were a friend of his father, and had always kept your account in this bank and would continue to do so. But you must be a wheedling, forward old man to get the chance to say such things to him, because your account means nothing to him now, and your good memory only annoys him. The reason so many men, after they become distinguished or successful, get this habit of looking straight ahead when we are standing ingratiatingly near, wishing to claim acquaintanceship with them in their humbler past, is because they wish to forget this past, and especially you who retain the speaking tongue of it.