"That's the sort father needs."
"Perhaps." A pause. "When you are away, he even answers your letters, doesn't he? He has told me that."
"Father never writes to me."
"But he spoke as if your father didn't even dictate them; as though he had even the responsibility of giving answers to his employer's son."
The motor speeded as John's foot unconsciously pressed the accelerator.
"He does have a good deal of authority—"
Two hours later, John Taylor walked thoughtfully up the drive and let himself in the carriage door. His father and mother were sitting in the library, his mother reading the newspaper aloud to Luke. She took off her glasses when John came in.
After a moment old Luke looked up and it struck the boy that his eye was cold, not at all as it usually appeared when he talked to Philip Rowe.
"Father, I've decided to go north right away," John said almost casually. "The sooner I am on the job, the sooner I'll make my start. I want to thank you again."
His mother made a little flutter of pleasure, but Luke did not stir.
He spat in the general direction of the fire and rolled a skeptical eye at his wife.
"Son, when you get on the job, think about thanks."
There was something subtly derisive in his manner.
