back in the chair and crossed his knees with the air of a man who had just consummated a fifteen-million-dollar merger.
Loamford carefully closed the account books, tucked his pencil away discreetly and rose neatly from his desk.
“Now that you have settled the future for the tenth time this year,” he said, “you'll excuse me if I go to bed.”
He extracted a small penknife and trimmed off the ragged end of a half-burned cigar. He placed the cigar on a smoking-stand, switched off the light over the desk and moved down the hall to the bedroom.
“Isn’t it a pity,” observed Mrs. Loamford, “that Samuel has so little interest in Dorothy’s career?”
“It’s just as good,” retorted her brother. “A boy who’s tied to his mother’s apron strings never gets anywhere. And, believe me, a girl that hangs on to her father’s coat-tails too long is in the same boat. She hasn’t any more chance than a snowball in hell. Mark my words!”
[12]
