The stone sill upon which he leaned reflected from its polished surface a
face carved to patience; but if the patient face had noted its own
reflection it might have remarked--and adjusted--eyebrows not so patient,
flattened to a level; and a slight quiver in the tip of a predatory nose.
The pen squeaked across glazed paper. Mr. Johnson took from his pocket a
long, thin cigar and a box of safety matches.

The match crackled, startling in the silence; the clerical person turned
in his chair and directed at the prospective customer a stare so baleful
that the cigar was forgotten. The flame nipped Johnson's thumb; he
dropped the match on the tiled floor and stepped upon it. The clerk
hesitated and then rose.

"He loves me--he loves me not!" murmured Mr. Johnson sadly, plucking the
petals from an imaginary daisy.

The clerk sauntered to the teller's wicket and frowned upon his customer
from under eyebrows arched and supercilious; he preserved a haughty
silence. Before this official disapproval Peter's eyes wavered and fell,
abashed.

"I'll--I'll stick my face through there if you'd like to step on it!" he
faltered.

The official eyebrows grew arrogant.

"You are wasting my time. Have you any business here?"

"Ya-as. Be you the cashier?"