"Oh, piffle! You're too young a man to say a fool thing like that. If it's this note that's bothering you—" He stopped, because David had turned and Jim saw his eyes.
"The note is only part of it. But, if you don't mind, we'll not discuss it. I'll be glad if you can help me out. And I'll try to cut this loan down a little next time—somehow. I'll not keep you any longer now." David moved toward the door. "Remember us to Mrs. Jim, won't you?" And he went hastily out.
"Why, damn it!" muttered Jim, left alone. "This is bad. This is entirely too bad."
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."