“I’ve heard a lot about you,” Kitteredge said. “How is your graduate work coming?”

“I’m missing an exam as we speak. Otherwise, it’s going great, thanks.”

Graham found something fascinating on the floor to stare at. Levine stared at Neal and shook his head.

“Yes, I chatted with Professor Boskin about it,” Kitteredge said. If he was bugged, he didn’t show it. “He mumbled something about giving you an Incomplete.”

“That was nice of you to do, Mr. Kitteredge, but I like to finish what I start.”

“Just so. Gentlemen, please sit down. Coffee, tea?” Three wooden chairs had been placed in an arc facing Kitteredge’s desk. Levine sat down on the right, Graham on the left. Neal plunked himself down in the remaining chair. The center of attention.

Kitteredge stepped to a silver coffee service. Neal noticed he moved in the awkward manner produced by generations of New England breeding-stops and starts which imply that any choice of motion is merely a necessary evil, that the real virtue is to remain still. Nevertheless, he managed to pour four cups of coffee and serve them around.

This took a while, and Neal used the quiet moments to study the office, which was pure bank, pure Kitteredge. The twentieth century had yet to intrude its vulgarities. Sunlight shone a soft, filtered amber on a room ruled by mahogany and oak. Glass-enclosed bookshelves lining the walls housed leather-bound sets of Dickens, Emerson, Thoreau, and, of course, Melville. Bowditch’s Navigation held a prominent spot, flanked by various obscure whaling memoirs and sailing treatises. Wooden models of old China clippers completed the decor. These were the vessels that had carried Kitteredge tea, Kitteredge guns, Kitteredge opium, and Kitteredge slaves across the oceans, and Neal imagined that the profits from these voyages still rested beneath his feet in Kitteredge vaults.

One modern memento held the pride of place.