ly of so much more import than the medicine itself? If
so, wasn't the whole affair a matter of selling shadow rather than
substance?

But it is not in human nature to view with too stern a scrutiny a
business which furnishes one's easeful self with all the requisites of
luxury, and that by processes of almost magic simplicity. Hal reflected
that all big businesses doubtless had their discomforting phases. He had
once heard a lecturing philosopher express a doubt as to whether it were
possible to defend, ethically, that prevalent modern phenomenon, the
millionaire, in any of his manifestations. By the counsel of perfection
this might well be true. But who was he to judge his father by such
rigorous standards? Of the medical aspect of the question he could form
no clear judgment. To him the patent medicine trade was simply a part of
the world's business, like railroading, banking, or any other form of
merchandising. His own precocious commercial experience, when, as a boy,
he had played his little part in the barter and trade, had blinded him
on that side. Nevertheless, his mind was not impregnably fortified. Old
Lame-Boy, bearer of dollars to the bank, loomed up, a disturbing figure.

Then, from a recess in his memory, there popped out the word "genteel."
His father had characterized the Certina business as being, possibly,
not sufficiently "genteel" for him. He caught at the saving suggestion.
Doubtless that was the trouble. It was the blatancy of the business, not
any evil quality inherent in it, which had offended him. Kindest and
gentlest of men and best of fathers as Dr. Surtaine was, he was not a
paragon of good taste; and his business naturally reflected his
personality. Even this was further than Hal had ever gone before in
critical judgment. But he seized upon the theory as a defense against
further thought, and, having satisfied his self-questionings with this
sop, he let his mind revert to his trip through the factory. It paused
on the correspondence room and its attractive forewoman.

"She seemed a practical little thing," he reflected. "I'll talk to her
again and get her point of view." And then he wondered, rather amusedly,
how much of this self-suggestion arose from a desire for information,
and how much was inspired by a memory of her haunting, hungry eyes.

On the following morning he kept away from the factory, lunched at the
Huron Club with William Douglas, Elias M. Pierce, who had found time to
be