“He is not alone in that,” Betty exclaimed. “Sometimes I feel that I hate money! People grow so fond of it. They think only of themselves, even when you’ve been ever so good to them.”
“Well, it’s human nature,” the banker replied equably. “I don’t know who it is that you have in your mind, my dear, but it applies to most people.” He was going to say more when the door opened.
“Mr. Rodd is here, asking for Mr. Clement, sir,” the maid said. “He was to meet him at half after six, and——”
“Ask Mr. Rodd to come in.”
The cashier entered shyly. In his dark suit, with his black stock and stiff carriage, he made no figure, where Arthur, or even Clement, would have shone. But there were women in Aldersbury who said that he had fine eyes, eyes with something of a dog’s gentleness in them; and Arthur so far agreed that he dubbed him a dull, mechanical dog, and often made fun of him as such. But perhaps Arthur did not always see to the bottom of things.
Ovington pushed the decanter and a glass towards him. “A glass of wine, Rodd,” he said genially. He was not of those who undervalued his cashier, though he knew his limitations. “The bank!” he said.
“And those who have stood by it!” Betty added softly.
Rodd drank the toast with a muttered word.
“Mr. Rodd has not the same reason to be thankful that we have,” Betty continued carelessly, holding her knitting up to the lamp.
“Why not?” Her father did not understand.