You'd most thought, with a perfectly good nephew to blow in some of her
surplus on, she'd made a fam'ly pet of J. Meredith. But not her. Pets
wasn't in her line. Her prescription for him was work, something
reg'lar and constant, so he wouldn't get into mischief. She didn't
care what it brought in, so long as he kept himself in clothes and
spendin' money. And that was about Merry's measure. He could add up a
column of figures and put the sum down neat at the bottom of the page.
So he fitted into our audit department like a nickel into a slot
machine. And there he stuck.

"But after sportin' around Europe so long," says I, "don't punchin' the
time clock come kind of tough?"

"It's a horrible, dull grind," says he. "Like being caught in a
treadmill. But I suppose I deserve nothing better. I'm one of the
useless sort, you know. I've no liking, no ability, for business; but
I'm in the mill, and I can't see any way out."

For a second J. Meredith's voice sounds hopeless. One look ahead has
taken out of him what little pep he had. But the next minute he braces
up, smiles weary, and remarks, "Oh, well! What's the use?"

Not knowin' the answer to that I shifts the subject by tryin' to get a
line on the other comp'ny that's expected for dinner.

"They're our next-door neighbors," says he, "the Misses Hibbs."

"Queens?" says I.