‘Yeah?’ cautiously.

‘Instead of measly little houses, everybody live in one big skyscraper — go call on your neighbours, winter evenings, not have to get your feet wet — and use all the land for playgrounds and great, big, huge gardens. And grottos, maybe.’

‘Yeah?’ wearily. ‘Listen, brother. In the real-estate game you don’t want ideas — you want prospects.’

‘But I was thinking — I’m sure I could get my dad to back me — he don’t know what to do with all the money he makes, he’s such a slave of routine, and with him behind me . . .’

‘Who is your dad?’

‘F. W. Cornplow, the district agent for the Triumph.’

‘Oh yes, sure. I heard him talk once at the Boosters’ Club. Great salesman. Great! Wish I could interest him in a new rental. I’ve got the sweetest proposition for a motor agency in this man’s town . . .’

‘Let’s go and see him. Got your bus here? Shall I give you a lift?’

‘Got my coop parked right across. You go ahead and I’ll trail you.’

‘O.K., Ben.’

‘Swell. What do they call you for short, baby?’

Arm in arm, the two swarmed into Fred’s office.

‘Dad, want you to meet Ben Bogey, the best little real-estate salesman in Sachem, and he’s got the slickest proposition for a motor-agency rental in this man’s town . . .’

Fred considered Ben’s spats, he considered Ben’s belted coat, and he was noticeably uncordial. ‘I’ve got a rental!’

Ben Bogey stepped forward and took the limelight away from Howard. ‘I know what a busy man you are, Mr. Cornplow . . .’

‘I am!’

‘ . . . and I won’t take your time just now, but if you are interested in air, light, space, costs-saving . . .’

‘I am not. I loathe all of ’em.’

‘I see, but . . .’

Howard laughed. ‘You better listen to the old scoundrel, Dad, because Ben and me have just fixed it up to start a real-estate firm.’

‘On who? On Ben?’

‘Not exactly, Dad. I’m sure that when you hear our plans you’ll be able to see your way clear . . .’

‘Come back next year, Howard, and we’ll talk it over, and now — please — go — AWAY!’

Annabel was small and forlorn, at the end of a mahogany couch, pride of the Staybridge Mansion. She peeped at the telephone out in the hall. By now, she thought, the instrument must be so well trained that she would have but to pick up the receiver to be connected with Truxon College.

Why, she thought, did she ever call him up? Howard never said anything on the telephone but ‘Ullo, ullo, ullo’ in what he considered an English accent. But he was so cheerful and knowable, in contrast to her cultured Parent, whose level voice was always a veil, soaked in ice water, between them.

Forlorn and very small. Actually, Annabel was as tall as her father, who sat in elegant flowing lines at the other end of the drawing-room. But so erect was his pride and self-satisfaction that, beside her, he seemed like an obelisk.