not finding it easy to hold his prospective
backer's attention. The patent project under consideration was what the
inventor called "a duplex door," designed to keep kitchen odors from
dining rooms. Mr. Harnden had a model of the apparatus. With his
forefinger he kept tripping the doors, showing how a person's weight
operated the contrivance, shutting the doors behind and simultaneously
opening the doors in front; but Mr. Harnden did not draw attention to
the palpable fact that a waiter would need to have the agility of a flea
to escape being swatted in the rear or banged in the face.

Mr. Britt watched the model's operations with lackluster eyes; he seemed
to be looking through the little doors and at something else that was
not visible to the inventor.

Mr. Harnden was short and roly-poly, with a little round mouth and big
round eyes, and a curlicue of topknot that he wagged in emphasis as a
unicorn might brandish his horn. Mr. Harnden considered that he was a
good talker. He was considerably piqued by Britt's apparent failure to
get interested, although the banker was making considerable of an effort
to return suitable replies when the inventor pinned him to answers.

"Suppose I go over the whole plan again, from the start," suggested
Harnden.

"Joe, Mr. Britt looks real tired," protested Mrs. Harnden from the
chimney corner. Her querulous tone fitted her lackadaisical looks; her
house dress had too many flounces on it; she had a paper-covered novel
in her hand.

"Yes, I _am_ tired," declared Britt, mournfully. "Sort of worn out and
all discouraged. I feel terribly alone in this world."

"Too bad!" Mrs. Harnden cooed her sympathy, affectedly.

"And I've been through hell's torments in the last few hours," declared
Britt; ire succeeded his dolor.

"You must try and forget how those ingrates have abused you, Mr. Britt.
This is a beautiful story I have just finished. You must take it with
you and read it. The love sentiment is simply elegant. And it speaks of
the sheltering walls of the home making a haven for the wounded heart. I
hope you have found this home a haven to-night." She rose and crossed to
him and laid the novel in his hands.

Mr. Harnden shoved his own hands into his trousers pockets, throwing
back his coat from his comfortable frontal convexity. He presented
a sort of full-rigged effect--giving the appearance of one of those
handy-Jack "Emergency Eddies" who make personal equipment a fad: the
u