When he had been whistling softly for five minutes or so, the idea flashed across his mind that flour was the one thing used in America more than any other food product and that if a man had his money invested in the manufacture and sale of flour, he would have an investment that would weather any panic.

The idea overcame him, and he shut his eyes and his ears and gripped his chair and whistled and saw visions.

Molly Culpepper came into the room, and paused a moment on the threshold as one afraid to interrupt a sleeper.
She saw the dapper little man kicking the chair rounds with his dangling heels, his flushed face reflecting a brain full of blood, his eyes shut, his head thrown far back, so that his Adam's apple stuck up irrelevantly, and she knew only by the persistence of the soft low whistle that he was awake, clutching at some day-dream.

When she cleared her throat, he was startled and stared at her foolishly for a moment, with the vision still upon him.

His wits came to him, and he rose to greet her.
"Well--well--why--hello, Molly--I was just figuring on a matter," he said as he put her in a chair, and then he added, "Well--I wasn't expecting you." Even before she could speak his lips were puckering to pick up the tune he had dropped.