“Oh, I guess we’ll be able to put on as good a front as this, all right, all right.”  Tilting his chair back until it seemed physically impossible that he could maintain his balance, he went on between puffs of his cigar: 

“You see, m’m, I’m not the kind of man that’s satisfied to go on working all his life for only just enough to keep body and soul together.  That’s all right maybe for pikers—­poor devils that have no spunk—­but not for ‘yours truly.’  I’m a pusher, a climber, I am, and, what’s more, I’m a man with ideas.  No one can keep me down in the world.  One of these days I’ll be driving my own automobile and Fanny will be riding in it with me.  It’s no ‘guff’ I’m giving you.  I’m the real ‘goods.’”

“You are a shipping clerk, I believe,” said Mrs. Blaine when she could get in a word sideways.

“Yes, m’m,” he snapped, “a shipping clerk—­what of it?”

“Is that a very—­lucrative position?”

He laughed derisively as if it was absurd to imagine he was going to remain a shipping clerk all his life.

“Oh, I’m only a clerk now, but I’ll be boss some day—­see if I don’t.”

“Might I ask what your present income is?” inquired the widow blandly.

For the first time Mr. Gillie seemed at a loss for an answer.  Awkwardly shifting his cigar to the other corner of his mouth, he stammered: 

“I’m not getting much now—­ten a week—­that’s all.”  Hastily he continued:  “But it won’t be for long.  The big men down town know me—­they know what I’m worth to them.  They’re just watching me.  Any day they may make me an offer that would land me in Easy Street.  Besides, sooner or later I’ll astonish people with one of my inventions.  I’m full of new ideas.  Some of them are bound to make money.  It’s a cinch!”

How long he would have continued in this strain there is no telling, for, although not talkative usually, he always became extraordinarily loquacious when encouraged to speak of his own affairs.  Utterly exhausted by his chatter and feeling dreadfully tired, Mrs. Blaine began to wish that her unwelcome visitor would go.  The room was full of tobacco smoke and his free-and-easy manner irritated her extremely.  Of course, his proposal was ridiculous, an impertinence.  It was Fanny’s fault for having encouraged him.  But it was best to say nothing—­to just drop him gently.  An awkward pause followed during which the widow, fatigued as she was, plied her needle more industriously than ever, while the would-be Benedict, nicely balanced on his chair, amused himself sending rings of smoke up to the ceiling.  Happily, at this juncture, Fanny returned from the kitchen.  She had noticed the strained silence and feared it boded ill.  A glance at her mother’s face was enough.  Quickly she exclaimed: 

“Now, mother, you must go to bed.  Mr. Gillie will excuse you, I’m sure.  It’s getting real late.”

Taking the hint, the shipping clerk rose to his feet.  With a grin he said: