“I’m not a bit tired, but I’m afraid you won’t stick to business,” “I will. If necessary I will use the word business in every sentence.” Jean thought a moment and then rapped on the kitchen door. “Daddy, dear, Mr. Mahan thinks he wants my opinion on some of his business affairs. Shall I take him down to the Tarpeian?” The song ceased. “So do, my girl, and if he doesn’t behave himself, throw him over.” Jean went to her room and drew on her new sweater. Then she led the way down and sprang up before he could assist her. In fact he was not trying to assist her, for his courage had failed. Chapter 43 He lacked the courage to ask her to marry him and then to sell him her silica. No matter how cautiously he might state the case, it would look like bribing her. Somehow “courage” does not seem the right word. Courage is heart, and in this situation there was too much heart already. We might say that he lacked sand, but that would be too literal. Sand is silica, and to say that he lacked the sand to ask for silica is playing on words. Courage is sometimes likened to red blood, but, alas, the reddest blood is that of suicides who have inhaled illuminating gas. What this lover really lacked was something like manganese, something to make him perfectly ductile in her hands without losing the hard edge of his commercial intent. There did not seem to be any such element. But as he leaned against the rock in the darkness he thought of the two documents in his pocket. They were meant to show his sincerity. She was welcome to every cent that he possessed, she was welcome to decide how he should spend his life, she was welcome to make their marriage exactly as much of a marriage as pleased her. Chapter 44. Ruthenium So when she politely inquired, “Aren’t you coming up?” up he came, and seated himself as near her as he dared. “Here is a document I’d like you to see.” He handed her the paper and his electric torch, and she read aloud: In the name of God, Amen. I, Marvin Mahan, being of sound mind on most subjects, though somewhat given to dreaming on atoms, do make and declare this my last will and testament, in manner following, that is to say: First, I give all my apparatus to my father, Chase Mahan, to be given to some school, and ask him to bury me at his own expense. Second, I give all my books to my mother, Helen Marvin Mahan, and especially the fairy stories that she first read to me. Third, I give my watch to my brother Charles. It is a good one. Fourth, I give to my brother Augustus a trinket that is hidden in my safety deposit box. He deserved it from Uncle Sam. Fifth, I give my clothes to my sister Anita for her disabled soldiers. Sixth, I give my left hand to my mechanical friend, James Endicott Hogg.