Bunty Hayes leaned back, swung around in his swivel chair, and thrust out his legs, displaying perfectly creased trousers. He had grown stouter, and had large yellow horn spectacles and carefully varnished hair. "Why, yes," he said. "Fact is, there's more in it. Folks want to tour in the holidays; but they want to shop all the year round, and they all want to shop in New York. Hundred and fifty million of 'em do. Storecraft's the answer to that. Here: seen one of our cards? We're going to move to Fifth Avenue next year. If you want to do big, you got to see big. That's my motto. See here, now; you live in the suburbs: well, we're the commuter's Providence. Supply you with everything you like, from your marketing to a picture gallery. We're going to have an art guild next year: buy your old masters for you, and all you got to do is to drive the hooks into your parlour wall and invite the neighbours."

Vance had not seated himself. He drew out the money and laid it on the desk. "Here's what we owe you," he said.

"Oh, hell—" said Hayes. The two men faced each other uneasily. At length Hayes nodded and said: "A'right," and put his hand out toward the money. "Who'll I make the receipt out to?" he asked, evidently not knowing what to say next. Vance said to Mrs. Tracy, and stood with his hands in his pockets leaning against the door. Hayes wrote the receipt rapidly, blotted and handed it to Vance. "Well, that's over," he remarked with an attempt at ease. Vance put the paper in his pocket. As he was turning to go Hayes stood up, and began, in an embarrassed voice: "See here—"

"Yes?"

"I—your wife was sick when I called the other day. I was real sorry. Wish you'd tell her."

"Sure," said Vance, nodding and swinging out of the door. On the stairs, it came over him that he had behaved like an oaf, and he was half minded to turn back and tell Hayes—Tell him what? He didn't know. But he vaguely felt there was a score between them which the money, after all, hadn't wiped out… .