Foraker, who played a lone hand for an intangible thing like an ideal.
The telephone bell whirred.
"Yes, Taylor?"
It was Rowe's voice.
"I was calling father, Phil."
"He understands that. He wants me to talk for him."
"Isn't he there?"
"Right here beside me."
"Then let me talk to him, please!"
Pause. He heard Rowe's voice, much fainter. "He insists on talking to you, sir." Another voice, but he could not distinguish the words; then:
"Your father still wants to know if you think more of that pine forest than you do of your right arm?"
"I—I haven't changed my mind since you were here."
A wait, hollow, indistinct voices. "I will be up again Sunday—your father says if you change your mind you may talk it over with me then. I have authority to deal for him."
His voice was very even, impersonal, but somehow it stung John as though it had been a crow of triumph. He waited a moment, breathing rapidly.
"Very well, Rowe," he said finally. "I will talk to you Sunday. Good-bye."
He walked from the hotel and Humphrey Bryant appeared in the doorway of his office rather excitedly.
"Going back soon?"
"As quick as I fill up with gas."
"Stop in, will you? I've a note for Helen."
He turned back into the office, drawing his spectacles down from his forehead, thin white hair standing high
