“Not at all,” said Dawson jovially.
“How much will you deposit?” asked Mellen casually.
“Not much;” the young man smiled.
“No,” said Dawson, with playful sarcasm “not much; about a million a minute.”
“You’d object to a million a day,” Grin-nell shook his head dolefully.
“He would not object to that,” interjected the richest man in the world, “if he knew how many days you would keep it up.” There was no playfulness in his voice, though he tried to speak in an easy, conversational tone.
“Well,” began Grinnell doubtfully. He went on quickly: “Oh, yes, he’d object before the end of the first week. I know him.” He nodded toward the bank president with a boyishly mischievous air. Dawson tried to smile back; he said:
“I’m getting to know you, too. I am going to be more generous in the future.”
“Good!” said Grinnell; he would take the president at his word when his month was up. “Now, if I should want drafts on London and Paris in a day or two—”
“Mr. Williams will be at your service, at any time,” the president assured him, as though Mr. Grinnell were an ordinary depositor transacting ordinary business. “No notice is required in this bank,” with a curious suggestion of bravado. He pushed one of a row of electric buttons on his desk. The assistant cashier, his fat face distorted dismally into an anticipatory excuse, appeared.