"Well," hazarded Gretry, "you got a good wife in yonder to—"
Jadwin interrupted him. He half turned away, thrusting his hands suddenly into his pockets. Partly to himself, partly to his friend he murmured:
"You bet I have, you bet I have. Sam," he exclaimed, then turned away again. "... Oh, well, never mind," he murmured.
Gretry, embarrassed, constrained, put his chin in the air, shutting his eyes in a knowing fashion.
"I understand," he answered. "I understand, J."
"Say, look at this organ here," said Jadwin briskly. "Here's the thing I like to play with."
They crossed to the other side of the room.
"Oh, you've got one of those attachment things," observed the broker.
"Listen now," said Jadwin. He took a perforated roll from the case near at hand and adjusted it, Gretry looking on with the solemn interest that all American business men have in mechanical inventions. Jadwin sat down before it, pulled out a stop or two, and placed his feet on the pedals. A vast preliminary roaring breath soughed through the pipes, with a vibratory rush of power. Then there came a canorous snarl of bass, and then, abruptly, with resistless charm, and with full-bodied, satisfying amplitude of volume the opening movement of the overture of "Carmen."
"Great, great!" shouted Gretry, his voice raised to make himself heard. "That's immense."