with it. He recalled
with a sad cynicism the story Mrs. Crittenden had told them about the
clever and forceful lawyer who had played the dirty trick on the farmer
here in Ashley, and done him out of his wood-land. She had been very
much wrought up about that, the poor lady, without having the least idea
that probably her husband's business-life was full of such
knifings-in-the-back, all with the purpose of making a quiet life for
her and the children.

Well, there was nothing for it but to go on. It wouldn't last long, and
Mr. Welles' back was practised in bowing to weather he didn't like but
which passed if you waited a while.

They were going up the hall now, towards a door marked "Office," the
children scampering ahead. The door was opening. The tall man who stood
there, nodding a welcome to them, must be Mr. Crittenden.

So that was the kind of man he was. Nothing special about him. Just a
nice-looking American business-man, with a quiet, calm manner and a
friendly face.

To the conversation which followed and which, like all such
conversations, amounted to nothing at all, Mr. Welles made no
contribution. What was the use? Mr. Bayweather and Vincent were there.
The conversation would not flag. So he had the usual good chance of the
silent person to use his eyes. He looked mostly at Mr. Crittenden. Well,
he wasn't so bad. They were usually nice enough men in personal
relations, business men. This one had good eyes, very nice when he
looked at the children or his wife. They were often good family men,
too. There was something about him, however, that wasn't just like all
others. What was it? Not clothes. His suit was cut off the same piece
with forty million other American business-suits. Not looks, although
there was an outdoor ruddiness of skin and clearness of eye that made
him look a little like a sailor. Oh yes, Mr. Welles had it. It was his
voice. Whenever he spoke, there was something . . . something _natural_
about his voice, as though it didn't ever say things he didn't mean.

Well, for Heaven's sake here was the old minister started off again on
one of his historical spiels. Mr. Welles glanced cautiously at Vincent
to see if he were in danger of blowing up, and found him looking
unexpectedly thoughtful. He was evidently not paying the least attention
to Mr. Bayweather's account of the eighteenth century quarrel between
New Hampshire and Vermont. He was apparently thinking of something else,
very hard.