“Mr. Cabot,” said Galusha, “I must insist that you say no more on this matter. My personal business is—ah—presumably my own. I—I must insist. Insist—ah—absolutely; yes.”
His cousin looked at him and he returned the look. Cabot's hesitation was but momentary. His astonishment was vast, but he accepted the situation gracefully. He laughed no more.
“I beg your pardon, Galusha,” he said. “I'm sorry. I had no thought of offending you, old man. I—well, perhaps I am inclined to joke too freely. But, really, I didn't suppose—I never knew you to be—”
He paused. Galusha's expression did not change; he said nothing.
“I am very sorry,” went on the banker. “It was only thoughtlessness on my part. You'll forgive me, Loosh, I hope.”
Galusha bowed, but he did not smile. A little of the color came back to his cheeks.
“Ah—ah—Yes, certainly,” he stammered. “Certainly, quite so.”
He sat down in his chair again, but he did not look in Miss Phipps' direction. He seemed to know that she was regarding him with a fixed and startled intentness.
“Five thousand dollars!” she said, in a low tone. Neither of the men appeared to hear her. Cabot, too, sat down. And it was he who, plainly seeking for a subject to relieve the tension, spoke next.
“I was telling my cousin,” he said, addressing Martha, “that I came down here to attend to a little matter of business. The business wasn't my own exactly, but it was a commission from a friend and client of mine and he left it in my charge. He and I supposed we had an agent here in your town, Miss Phipps, who was attending to it for us, but of late he hasn't been very successful. I received a letter from Williams—from my friend; he is in the South—asking me to see if I couldn't hurry matters up a bit. So I motored down. But this agent of ours was not in. Probably you know him. His name is Pulcifer.”