Sincerely, Willis Wayde by John P. Marquand

children are nasty.”
    â€œAnd here’s Will Burnham,” Mr. Harcourt said. “But you remember Will, don’t you, Harriet?”
    â€œHe’s the president of Grandfather’s bank,” Bess whispered. “So he doesn’t count, and there’s old Decker, with spots all over his coat. He doesn’t count much either.”
    The hall was filled with people now, shaking hands with Mr. and Mrs. Henry Harcourt and then moving toward the living room.
    â€œSelwyn has cocktails for us in the library,” Mr. Harcourt was saying.
    â€œThere come Mummy and Daddy,” Bess whispered. “There must have been a fight at the meeting. You can tell because Daddy’s laughing too much. And here come the Haywards, sticking together as usual. Grandfather bought most of their stock anyway, but Daddy says they never miss a free meal. Everybody hates the Haywards.”
    â€œDoesn’t anybody like anybody else?” Willis whispered.
    â€œOf course not,” Bess whispered back, “except when they take sides in a fight.”
    â€œHello, Ruth,” Mr. Harcourt said, smiling at Mrs. Blood.
    â€œWill there be green-turtle soup for lunch as usual?” Mrs. Blood asked.
    If they did not like each other Willis could see that there were bonds which held them together, so that, confronted by a common danger, they would stand together against a stranger. They were proud that they were Harcourts and proud of their dislikes.
    The group in the hall was growing smaller.
    â€œOnly distant cousins are left now,” Bess whispered. “I don’t know why Grandfather wastes his time with them.”
    But Mr. Harcourt was always the same with everyone. He seemed to be having a delightful time. He seemed to be particularly pleased to see each one again.
    Finally Mr. and Mrs. Harcourt stood alone near the foot of the stairs, and Mr. Harcourt’s glance traveled slowly around the empty front hall.
    â€œWell, my dear,” Mr. Harcourt said, “I think that’s the lot—the white man’s burden, you know—and we won’t have to do it again for a year. By the way, Harriet, don’t forget that I shall say grace.”
    â€œGrace, Henry?” Mrs. Harcourt repeated.
    â€œIt’s a custom my father started,” Mr. Harcourt said. “It won’t hurt any of them to remember God and to thank Him that He has allowed me to look after their interests.”
    â€œDon’t be sacrilegious, Henry,” Mrs. Harcourt said.
    â€œI’m not,” Mr. Harcourt answered. “There’s a bonus check beneath every one of their plates, you know. They can’t wait to get in to lunch to see how much it is.”
    â€œHenry,” Mrs. Harcourt said, “you look tired.”
    â€œIt’s always a strain handling damn fools,” Mr. Harcourt said, “particularly one’s flesh and blood. Let’s go and look at them, Harriet.”
    They turned and walked away toward the living room, and Willis moved uneasily but Bess shook her head.
    â€œDon’t,” she whispered, “don’t move. Here’s Grandfather coming back.”
    She had seen him before Willis had. He came walking across the empty hall with his quick, deliberate step, holding a cocktail glass. He paused near the open front door for a moment and then he began walking slowly up the stairs.
    â€œHe must be going to the bathroom,” Bess whispered.
    Willis thought that it was a most indelicate remark. They could see him walking up the stairs, but when he reached the upper hall, they could only hear his footsteps moving nearer. Then they heard his voice right beside them.
    â€œYou can come out now,” he said. “The show is over.”
    Willis heard Bess give a sharp gasp as he struggled to his feet. Mr. Harcourt was standing just in front of the niche that led to the window.
    â€œIt’s all right,” he said. “I noticed you up