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obviously done well for himself because now he owned two apartment buildings free and clear, was a director of a chain of stores, and a part owner of a sugar refinery. He was obviously one of those adroit people who could move from one enterprise to another. The purpose of the loan was for additions to a tile plant. Part of the collateral was in government bonds and part in stocks. It surprised Charles that the officers had not given him the loan at once, particularly since it appeared that Mr. Eaton was a director of the Pacific Investors Trust and thus indirectly controlled several large accounts at the Stuyvesant which were not his own. If Mr. Eaton were disappointed personally, the disappointment might go much further, but recently Tony Burton and Stephen Merry had been exhibiting an unusual slowness in making decisions.
    â€œI wonder why he didn’t go to his own bank,” Charles said, “not that it’s any of my business.”
    Clearly Roger Blakesley was delighted by the question.
    â€œBecause I met him first, Charles,” Roger said, “and I’m selling him on the personal service of small banks. I met him playing golf. I’ve seen quite a good deal of Godfrey Eaton. He’s a friend of Sam Summerby—you know, Tony—Sam Summerby from Baltimore.”
    Perhaps it was Charles’s imagination, perhaps he was becoming unduly sensitive, but it seemed to him that there was a slight rustle around the table. It seemed to him that everyone was watching them, and he realized that Roger had made a very good point. He knew that Roger was implying, without being obliged to say it, that he had brought in a very nice piece of business to the Stuyvesant, which was more than Charles had done lately. He was implying, without having to say it, that he brought in new business because he got around and sweetened contacts and played golf with people like Samuel Summerby, and everyone knew the Summerby Corporation. He was implying, without saying it, that it was too bad Charles played a very poor game of golf, and it seemed to Charles that he was called upon to give some sort of answer.
    â€œAre you on a first-name basis with him, Roger?” he asked.
    It was a small and sordid little contest. He was implying, without having to say it, that several times in the past Roger had been too prematurely friendly.
    â€œOf course I am,” Roger said. “I’ve known Godfrey Eaton for a year. Everybody at the club knows Godfrey.”
    â€œWhat club?” Tony Burton asked. “Where does Eaton play golf?”
    â€œWhy, the Seneca Club,” Roger said. “I’ve got in the habit of playing there lately instead of at Oak Knoll. It’s a sportier course.”
    Mr. Burton nodded and made a note on a memorandum pad. The meeting had turned into a club’s committee on admissions.
    â€œI rather liked him myself,” Tony Burton said. “He’s breezy, but he has an agreeable personality. But Charles has put his finger on it. Why should he come around to us?”
    â€œBecause he likes us,” Roger said. “He told me he liked you very much personally.”
    â€œWhy shouldn’t he?” Stephen Merry asked. “I like Tony personally.”
    Roger Blakesley laughed.
    â€œAs a matter of fact, I do too,” he said. “That’s why the Stuyvesant is a great bank. Everybody likes Tony.”
    â€œI’d love Tony myself,” Charles said, “if he’d lend me three hundred thousand dollars. That’s the way it is. Love and money.”
    The officers laughed. Even the younger men around the table smiled, and Mr. Burton picked up a piece of paper. “He’s putting up enough,” he said. “There’s only one security I question.”
    â€œWhat?” Roger Blakesley asked.
    Mr. Burton frowned at the paper he was holding, and he looked very handsome there at the head of the table as everyone’s eyes moved