The girl rose, and crossed the room to him. “Mr. Starkweather––”
“Name’s Uncle John,” he corrected. “You married it.”
“Uncle John––I––I don’t know how to––” She bit her lip, and he saw the depths of her eyes, and saw that they were filling with tears. She gestured imperatively to Henry. “You know him better––you tell him.”
Henry had sprung across to join them. “Uncle John, you’re a peach! I’ll break rock on the streets if you say so! You’re a peach!”
“Well,” said Mr. Starkweather, uncomfortably. “If everybody else’s goin’ to bawl, I guess it’ll have to be contagious.... Only when you get back, you’re both goin’ to pay the piper. I’m goin’ to make Henry earn his salt, whether he’s got it in him or not; I’m goin’ to make him crawl. That goes as it stands, too; no foolin’.... Look here, don’t you want me to break it to the Judge? Guess I better. I can put it up to him in writin’ twice as good as Henry put it up to me by talkin’, anyhow.... And I’ll put an announcement in the 23 Herald that’ll take the cuss off. Anna, you hustle up some engraved notices to get around to all our friends. You know what’s in style.... Oh, you’re a couple of champion idiots, and Henry’s goin’ to sweat for it when he comes home, but––God bless you, my boy, and you too, my dear––only how in blazes am I goin’ to get it across to Mirabelle? That’s what bites me the worst, Henry; that’s what bites me the worst!”
CHAPTER III
In a small office on the third floor of the City Bank Building Mr. Theodore Mix, broker and amateur politician, sat moodily intent upon his morning newspaper. For thirty years (he was fifty-five) Mr. Mix had been a prominent and a mildly influential citizen, and by great effort he had managed to keep himself excessively overrated. A few years ago he had even been mentioned as a candidate for Mayor, and the ambition was still alive within him, although fulfilment was never so distant. But despite his appearance, which was dignified, and despite his manner, which would have done for the diplomatic corps, and despite his connection with local charities and churches and civic committees, Mr. Mix was secretly a bit of a bounder; and although the past decade or two he had made a handsome income, he had contrived to get rid of it as fast as he conveniently 25 could, and by methods which wouldn’t always have stood analysis.
Lately, for no apparent cause, his best customers had edged away from him; he was gliding rapidly into debt, and he knew that unless he clambered out again within six or eight weeks, he should have considerable difficulty in preserving his reputation, both financial and ethical. And like all men in the same position, Mr. Mix was fiercely jealous of his prestige; by long practice he had warped himself into thinking that it belonged to him; and he was ready to defend it with every conceivable weapon.