this gift and promise of salary. They were grateful, of course; but
why shouldn't they be? He was efficient, he knew that; under him things
moved smoothly. It never occurred to him that he belonged in the realm
of clerkdom. Those people were the kind of beings who ought to work for
him, and who would. There was nothing savage in his attitude, no rage
against fate, no dark fear of failure. These two men he worked for
were already nothing more than characters in his eyes--their
business significated itself. He could see their weaknesses and their
shortcomings as a much older man might have viewed a boy's.

After dinner that evening, before leaving to call on his girl, Marjorie
Stafford, he told his father of the gift of five hundred dollars and the
promised salary.

"That's splendid," said the older man. "You're doing better than I
thought. I suppose you'll stay there."

"No, I won't. I think I'll quit sometime next year."

"Why?"

"Well, it isn't exactly what I want to do. It's all right, but I'd
rather try my hand at brokerage, I think. That appeals to me."

"Don't you think you are doing them an injustice not to tell them?"

"Not at all. They need me." All the while surveying himself in a mirror,
straightening his tie and adjusting his coat.

"Have you told your mother?"