A slight frown seemed to hover about the banker’s brow. He appeared to place a curb on his speech. “Greatly, thank you,” he answered briefly.
The clerical smile again burst into bloom. “So glad; so very glad to hear it,” he murmured; then continued brightly, “but I felt sure that it would be so. There was such a field for it. When he left us, one might almost have dared to uproot the tares without feeling that the wheat would be in danger. So glad—so very glad.”
He paused a moment; then, as if tentatively feeling his way toward a possible germ for a sermon, he moralized, “Three years! How swiftly time passes us by! What changes it brings to us all! To you—to me—to your nephew—” He stopped abruptly, his ideas swinging suddenly into another channel, “And speaking of the passage of time, Mr. Carleton, what a change it has brought in your daughter, Rose! I remember her as a charming child, and behold, I met her the other afternoon at a little tea—why, Mr. Carleton, I assure you I could scarcely believe my eyes. A young lady—grown-up, self-possessed, a half-dozen young men around her. Why, I was amazed. The passage of time—”
He half paused; perhaps, if the truth were told, Henry Carleton half broke in upon him. “Yes,” the banker agreed, “it passes, as you say. And it’s valuable, Van Socum. We can’t afford to waste it, any of us.”
The minister smiled—forgivingly—and bending over his book, he wrote—yet did not at once vanish. Of a man so comfortably portly, of a plumpness so suggestive of a certain counterpart in the animal creation, perhaps that could hardly have been expected. Instead he rose slowly, beaming on his conquered antagonist. “By their fruits—” he murmured.
Henry Carleton nodded, handing the check across the desk. “Exactly,” he said dryly. “By the way, Van Socum, I heard a capital story the other day. It was told—this time—about a man high up in municipal office. ‘Is that fellow Blank,’ asked some one who didn’t know just what position he really occupied, ‘is that fellow Blank a politician—or just a common thief?’ Good, wasn’t it?”
The Reverend William Van Socum laughed heartily. “Oh, capital,” he cried, and then, casually, he added, “you say that was told about a politician?”
Henry Carleton met his glance. “Yes,” he answered, “that time—it was told about a politician. Well, good-by, Van Socum; call again. Always glad to see you, you know, at any time. Good-by.”
Half way to the door Van Socum turned. “Oh, by the way, Mr. Carleton,” he said, “are any of these rumors that I hear true, by any chance? Are you going to give your friends an opportunity in the near future to see you reaping still further and still higher honors? Or is it merely gossip? For my part, I most sincerely hope that it’s all true.”
Henry Carleton’s expression and tone were alike inscrutable. “Thank you very much, I’m sure,” he returned, “but really I’m not at liberty to talk just now.”