“That’s better! You’re Little Willie, the Apt Pupil, all right. What were we talking about before we switched off on to the educational rail? I know—about your writing. What were you writing?”

“A story.”

“For a paper?”

“For a magazine.”

“What! One of the fiction stories about the Gibson hero and the girl whose life he saved, like you read?”

“That’s the idea.”

She looked at him with a new interest.

“Gee, George, who’d have thought it! Fancy you being one of the high-brows! You ought to hang out a sign. You look just ordinary.”

“Thanks!”

“I mean as far as the grey matter goes. I didn’t mean you were a bad looker. You’re not. You’ve got nice eyes, George.”

“Thanks.”

“I like the shape of your nose, too.”

“I say, thanks!”

“And your hair’s just lovely!”

“I say, really. Thanks awfully!”

She eyed him in silence for a moment. Then she burst out:

“You say you don’t like the bank?”

“I certainly don’t.”

“And you’d like to strike some paying line of business?”

“Sure.”

“Then why don’t you make your fortune by hiring yourself out to a museum as the biggest human clam in captivity? That’s what you are. You sit there just saying ‘Thanks,’ and ‘Bai Jawve, thanks awf’lly,’ while a girl’s telling you nice things about your eyes and hair, and you don’t do a thing!”

Rutherford threw back his head and roared with laughter.

“I’m sorry!” he said. “Slowness is our national failing, you know.”

“I believe you.”

“Tell me about yourself. You know all about me, by now. What do you do besides brightening up the dull evenings of poor devils of bank-clerks?”

“Give you three guesses.”