Walsh thrust his hands into the pockets of his office coat and began talking at once of several matters of importance connected with the Craighill interests. Craighill nodded oftener than he spoke as Walsh made his succinct statements. There was no sentiment in Walsh; his voice was as dry and hard as his facts. He had studied credits so long that his life’s chief concern was solvency. He could tell you any day in the week the amount of bituminous coal in the bins at Cincinnati or Louisville; or whether the corner grocers of Johnstown or Youngstown had paid for their last purchases from the Wayne-Craighill Company. Craighill’s inquiries were largely perfunctory, a fact not lost upon Walsh, who fidgeted in his chair. “Everything seems all right,” said Craighill, turning round and facing Walsh. “By the way, did the home papers report my address before the Western Reserve Society? Here’s a very fair account of it from the Cleveland papers. I’d be glad if you’d look it over. I’m often troubled, Walsh, by the amount of time these public and semi-public matters take, but in one way and another I am well repaid. They inject a certain variety into my life, and the acquaintances and friendships I have made among statesmen, educators, financiers and men of affairs are really of great value to me.” “Um.” Walsh twirled the clipping in his fingers. The discussion of anything outside the range of business embarrassed him. It was perfectly proper for Roger Craighill to spend his time with other gentlemen of wealth and influence in making after-dinner speeches and in seeking ways and means of ameliorating the condition of the poor whites or the poor blacks of the South, or in stimulating interest in the merit system, or in reforming the currency. Walsh thought favourably of these things, though he did not think of them deeply or often. “Ah, Wayne!” The moment had arrived for the son to show himself and Wayne Craighill entered from his own room and walked quickly to his father’s desk. Walsh rose and examined the young man critically with his small, shrewd eyes, then left with an abrupt good night. Father and son greeted each other cordially; the father held the young man’s hand a moment as they stood by the desk. “Wayne, my boy!” said the elder warmly, “sit down. How’s Fanny? She came home from York Harbour rather early this year.” “Oh, she’s all right,” replied Wayne, though he had not seen his sister during his father’s absence. He assumed that the fact of his latest escapade was known to his father. Everyone always seemed to know, though for several years Roger Craighill had suspended the rebukes, threats and expostulations with which he had met Wayne’s earlier lapses. His father’s cordiality put Wayne on guard at once: he suspected that he was to be taken to task for his sins with a severity that had drawn interest during his immunity.