"_Too_ good," said Mr. Mix, frankly. "It's taking all my capital to carry my customers. And you know how tight money is."
"Oh, yes. Well--I guess your credit's good for five, all right. When do you have to have it? Now?"
Mr. Starkweather shook his head. "No, it don't, either. When a man wants money, he _wants_ it. Wants it some particular day. When is it?"
"Why, if you _could_ let me have it today, John, I'd appreciate it."
"Make out your note," said Mr. Starkweather, heavily, "Interest at six percent, semi-annually. I'll have the cashier write you out a check."
Ten minutes later Mr. Mix, patting his breast pocket affectionately, bestowed a paternal smile upon the girl at the wicket; and Mr. Starkweather, alone in his office, drew a prodigious breath and slumped down in his chair, and fell to gazing out over the roof-tops.
It was a fortnight, now, since Henry's last letter. He wished that Henry would write oftener. He told himself that one of Henry's impulsive, buoyant letters would furnish the only efficacious antidote to Mirabelle. And he needed an antidote, and a powerful one, for during the past two weeks Mirabelle had been surpassing herself. That is, if one can surpass a superlative.
Judge Barklay, of course, had taken the revelation like a man. Like a philosopher. He was fond of Henry personally; he had objected to him purely for the obvious reasons. He agreed, however, with Mr. Starkweather--marriage might awaken Henry to complete responsibility. Indeed he had Mr. Starkweather's guaranty of it. To be sure a secret marriage was somewhat sensational, somewhat indecorous--
"Humph!" Mirabelle had interrupted. "I don't know who's insulted most--you or us. Still I suppose you've got _one_ consolation--and that's if two young fools marry each other instead of somebody else it only leaves just the two of 'em to repent at leisure instead of four."
Mr. Starkweather recalled, with chagrin, his own and the Judge's futile attempts at tact. Mirabelle was tact-proof; you might as well try subtle diplomacy on a locomotive. He took another deep breath, and gazed abstractedly out over the roof-tops. He wished that Henry would write. Henry had his defects, but the house was not quite livable without him. Mr. Starkweather was swept by an emotion which took him wholly by surprise and almost overcame him; he sat up, and began to wonder where he could find some occupation which would chink up the crevices in his thoughts, and prevent him from introspection. Eventually he hit upon it, and with a conscious effort, he pulled himself out of his chair, and went over to Masonic Hall to meet his sister Mirabelle.