David went to a long weary day at his office, where he had nothing to do but sit at his desk and gaze into space. Shirley was mistaken. Her words had not been filed away in the remote pigeonhole, "To Be Forgotten." For a while Jim stared frowningly at the crumpled note in his hand. Then he began a long series of telephone calls. The thing was still on his mind that evening when Mrs. Jim descended from the children's dormitory and silence reigned at last through the house. "You might as well out with it now as later," she observed, as she took up her sewing. "What has been bothering you all evening?" "I've been congratulating myself on my cleverness in the matter of choosing a wife." Mrs. Jim surveyed him suspiciously. "What put that into your head?" "Davy Quentin--by way of contrast, I suppose." "What about Davy?" "I'm afraid he's got into a pretty sour pickle." "He's been there for four years. Though he didn't always know it. What is the particular development now?" "Debt, insolvency--in fact, genteel poverty." "And worry, discontent and disillusionment at home. I've been afraid of that." "He didn't say so." "Davy wouldn't, of course." "It must be pretty bad, for he wants to give up his profession and take a job. You know, Davy's liking for his work amounted almost to a mania." "Does he _have_ to give it up?" "It doesn't meet their needs--at least, their requirements. And worst of all, he's got it into his head that he hasn't made good." "But he has made good. He has done good work. And he has talent. Hasn't he?" "In a way. But there's only one divine spark nowadays--push. He hasn't that. He prefers to let his work speak and push for itself. Poor Davy!" "Poor Davy! But you'll get him a position, of course." "There are times," remarked Jim, "when you're as innocent and credulous as Davy himself. It isn't so simple. He's fitted only for his own line. And there are very few men willing to pay a living salary to a greenhorn just for learning a business. In fact, after to-day I'm ready to say there is none." "Poor Davy!" Mrs. Jim repeated softly. She threaded a needle and bent over her sewing. Jim watched the swift deft fingers proudly; they had acquired the habit of industry in a day when the Blaisdells had had to wrestle with the problem of slender income. After a few minutes' silence she let her sewing fall to her lap. "I think, Jim, if you'll have the machine around I'll go down-town with you in the morning." Jim sighed in relief. "You've solved it, then?" "I want to call on my latest acquisition. You remember asking, 'Why is Jonathan Radbourne?'" Jim nodded, with the smile the thought of that gentleman always evoked. "The answer is, of course--Davy." "I'm wondering," said Jim thoughtfully, "just how Davy would like it if he knew you were going to beg a job for him." "I'm not going to beg a job. I will merely state the case to Mr. Radbourne."