“I’m short of money!” repeated the millionaire, rubbing his hands pleasantly together--“I don’t mind lending this Willie Dove five pounds, as you say he served the firm well a quarter of a century ago,--but two hundred! Now, Mr. Pitt, you’re a sensible man,--a man of business,--and you know that to ask such a sum on loan for a decayed and diseased commercial traveller is absurd! He would never be able to ‘work it back’ as he says. And as for your being his security, I have too much respect for you to allow you to put yourself into such an awkward position. You’d regret it,--you really would, Pitt! Besides, why not let Dove go to one of the Hospitals and take his chance among the young students and general cutters-up of bodies, eh? They’d charge him very little--perhaps nothing--especially if they found his disease complex enough for good ‘practice’!” Mr. Pitt gave an unconscious gesture of physical repulsion. “Mrs. Dove has a nervous horror of her husband’s being separated from her,”--he said, slowly--“She says that if he is taken away to a hospital she feels sure he will never come back. Then again, she has great faith in the doctor who has been attending Dove for the past six months--and he strongly recommends a private operation.” “Of course! He wants to put the money into his own pocket,”--said McNason, calmly--“Well! I can’t be of any assistance in this business--so if that’s all you came about, you may consider that you have done your duty, and that the interview is finished. Good-night, Mr. Pitt!” But Pitt still hesitated. “It is Christmas Eve, sir,----” he began, falteringly. “It is. I have been reminded of that fact several times to-day. What of it?” “Nothing, sir, except--except--that it is a time of year when everyone tries to do some little kindness to his neighbour, and when we all endeavour to help the poor and sick according to our means,--and--and when some of us who are getting old may look back on our past lives and remember the ones we have loved who are no longer here,--when even you, sir,--you might perhaps think of your only son who is gone,--the son of the firm, as we used to call him,--Willie Dove carried the child many times on his shoulder round the works to see the engines in full swing,--and he was very fond of Willie--and--er--and--as I say, sir, you might, perhaps, for the dead boy’s sake, do a good turn----” He paused. The millionaire had half risen from his chair, and was gripping its cushioned elbows hard with both hands. “How dare you!” he muttered in choked accents--“How dare you use the memory of my dead son to urge a beggar’s plea! Why do you presume to probe an old grief--a cureless sorrow--in an attempt to get money out of me! Because it is Christmas Eve? Curse Christmas Eve!”