much thought. He had never had reason to; she always had approved him.
He swung along Michigan Avenue in a cold, raw wind under gray, gloomy clouds comprising weather which Chicagoans, making the best of it according to their slave psychology, called invigorating. From a less practical point of view, and probably a more honest one, it was rotten weather, Jay admitted. He was hurrying along, hoping that this morning Phil Metten, making good on his hints of yesterday, would send over a big order, which would be a reward for social favors extended—and that was rather rotten, Jay thought. What had been behind those gray eyes of Ellen Powell when she had said "grow up"?
He entered the office, determined not to be affected by strictures upon his marriage, because his father did not know the facts of it, but he hoped for no discussion of Lida. And there was, immediately, none.
His father, who was at the desk with Ellen, arose and she slipped away. His father extended a hand, slowly and with a grave, steady inspection. In spite of being affected by the solemnity of it, Jay tried to study this reception according to his knowledge of lines his father would adopt. A visit with Stanley Alban was, especially in these last years, an emotional and prayerful event. Beyond doubt, his father had discussed the marriage with his old, ailing friend; beyond doubt, they had prayed together over Jay and, probably together, decided what was to be done about him. It was a guess, only; yet Jay felt sure of it; and the idea of the two disposing of him, and without knowing all the facts, offended him.
