than ever and still going down. His five hundred a year was safe, but the rest seemed doomed for his lifetime, at least. He would drop in at George’s office. George’s office was pleasantly filled with dapper, neat young men and (surprisingly enough) dapper, slim young women, seated at desks in the big light-flooded room. At one corner of each desk stood a polished metal placard on a little standard, and bearing the name of the desk’s occupant. Mr. Owens. Mr. Satterlee. Mr. James. Miss Rauch. Mr. Minick.

“Hello, Father,” Mr. Minick would say, looking annoyed. “What’s bringing you down?”

“Oh, nothing. Nothing. Just had a little business to tend to over at the Exchange. Thought I’d drop in. How’s business?”