This is the only kind of modesty of which men are capable. If one of them went out with this look of neighing valor on his face he would be arrested, of course, because it is such a perfectly scandalous expression. But if a maid walks abroad with love published in her eyes and on her very lips, you are moved to reverence, because it is a sort of piety which seems to sanctify her. He bent lower over his task, shot the lever down with a bang, struck the pedal harshly and rhythmically--made a noise, implying that he was and had been, without interruption, wholly engrossed with this business. “Remember her, George?” came his father’s voice like a shot out of a clear sky. “Who?” asked George, instantly on his guard. “The girl that came in just now.” “I didn’t notice. Who was she?” “Helen Adams.” “Never should have recognized her.” This was the truth. He had recognized only loveliness, not the maiden name of it. “Last time you saw her she was a long-legged, saucer-faced youngster, wearing her hair plaited and tied with a blue ribbon, I reckon.” “That’s the way I remember little Helen,” George admitted, grinning. “Two years make a lot of difference in a girl of that age. Pretty, ain’t she?” The young man did not answer. He was suddenly and unaccountably annoyed. When your whole mind is concentrated on a girl, she becomes your religion and you do not care to enter into a doctrinal discussion of this religion with another man, not even your old, gray-haired father, because she has become the sacred silence of your own soul, no matter what or who she was yesterday, nor even if you never had so much as a twinge of soul until this moment. You practically invent your soul then and there out of the joy and daylight of your youth, because it is the only place suitable for such a creature to occupy. Let Moses and the prophets stand aside! This is your pagan period of vestal virgins; not that you know it, but it is. Mr. Cutter stood up, produced a heavy gold watch, studied the face of it, grinned, jerked his coat down and around, buttoned one button of it by the hardest work and reached for his hat. “Well, George, I guess you’ll finish before you quit,” he said. This was a hint. The son took it. “All right, sir. I’ll be along about midnight,” he answered good-naturedly, at the same time making a wry face. “Oh, you’ll probably get in before suppertime. The work will come easier in a day or two,” the father retorted as he stalked out. He was scarcely out of sight before the cashier, teller and bookkeeper followed in quick procession. George was now alone. He changed his scene instantly, as most people do when they are left alone. He straightened up, started smoking, moved directly into the current of the electric fan, folded his arms and thought profoundly, his head lifted, eyes fixed in a noble gaze, as if on no particular object; a heroic figure, blowing volumes of smoke through his nose.