Old Sanders as boy and man had been in the employ of the banking and brokerage firm of Wallace Brothers for two generations. The firm gradually had advanced his position until now he was confidential adviser and general manager, besides having an interest in the profits of the business.
He enjoyed the friendship of Mr. Wallace, and had been a constant visitor at his house from the first days of that gentleman's married life. He himself was alone in the world, a confirmed bachelor. He had seen Mildred creep from babyhood into childhood, and bud from girlhood to womanhood. To Mildred he was one of that numerous army of brevet relations known as ``gran-pop,'' ``pop,'' or ``uncle.'' To her he was Uncle Sanders.
If the old man had one touch of human nature in him it was a solicitude for Mildred's future--an authority arrogated to himself--to see that she married the right man; but even that was directed to her material gain in this world's goods, and not to any sentimental consideration for her happiness.
He flattered himself that by timely suggestion he had ``stumped'' at least half a dozen would-be candidates for Mildred's hand. He pooh-poohed love as a necessity for marital felicity, and would enforce his argument by quoting from the bard:
``All lovers swear more performance than they are able, and yet reserve an ability that they never perform; vowing more than the perfection of ten, and discharging less than the tenth part of one.''
``You can get at a man's income,'' he would say, ``but not at his heart.
Love without money won't travel as far as money without love,'' and many married people whose bills were overdue wondered if the old fellow was not right.
He was cold-blooded and generally disliked by the men under him. The more evil-minded gossips in the bank said he was in league with ``Old Nick.'' That, of course, was absurd, for it does not necessarily follow, because a man suggests a means looking to an end, disreputable though it be, that he has Mephistopheles for a silent partner. The conservative element among the employees would not openly venture so far, but rather thought if his satanic majesty and old Sanders ran a race, the former would come in a bad second, if he were not distanced altogether.
The old man always reached the office at nine. Mr. Wallace usually arrived a half hour later, seldom earlier, which was so well understood by Sanders that he was greatly surprised when he walked into the president's office, the morning after that gentleman had attended Diotti's concert, to find the head of the firm already there and apparently waiting for him.
``Sanders,'' said the banker, ``I want your advice on a matter of great importance and concern to me.''
Sanders came across the room and stood beside the desk.
``Briefly as possible, I am much exercised about my daughter.''
The old man moved up a chair and buried himself in it. Pressing his elbows tightly against his sides, he drew his neck in, and with the tips of his right hand fingers consorted and coquetted with their like on the opposite hand; then he simply asked, ``Who is the man?''
``He is the violinist who has created such a sensation here, Angelo Diotti.''
``Yes, I've seen the name in print,'' returned the old man.
``He has bewitched Mildred. I never have seen her show the least interest in a man before. She never has appeared to me as an impressionable girl or one that could easily be won.''
