IJUMPED into my MG and drove through the night to Boston. I changed my shirt in the car before I entered the offices on State Street. It was only eight o'clock in the
morning, but several important-looking people were waiting to see Oliver Barrett the Third. His secretary recognized me and spoke my name into the telephone. My father did not say 'Show him in'. Instead, the door opened and he came out to meet me.
'Oliver,' he said. His hair was a little greyer and his face had lost some of its colour. 'Come in, son,' he said. I walked into his office and sat down opposite him.
For a moment we looked at each other. Then he looked away, and so did I. I looked at the things on his desk: the scissors, the pen-holder, the letter-opener, the photos of my mother and me.
'How have you been, son?' he asked.
'Very well, sir . . . Father, I need to borrow five thousand dollars.'
He looked hard at me. 'May I know the reason?' he said at last.
'I can't tell you, Father. Just lend me the money. Please.'
I felt that he didn't want to refuse, or argue with me. He wanted to give me the money, but he also wanted to . . . talk.
'Don't they pay you at Jonas and Marsh?'
'Yes, sir.' So he knows where I work, I thought