Again young Cahill murmured an assent as he looked reflectively into the fire. He could just remember that she had not seemed very fond of himself.
“But Louise is demonstrative enough,” he said, at length.
“Yes—yes, indeed,” replied his father, readily. “Louise is very affectionate and enthusiastic. She seems tremendously interested in her college—much more so than you were in yours,” he added with another laugh.
Dana Cahill got up leisurely, and stood by the chimney-piece thrusting his hands in his pockets and looking thoughtfully into the fire.
“I am thinking, sir,” he began, hesitatingly, “of what you have said about my having lived straight. I want to be fair about it. I have lived better than some. I have done nothing to be ashamed of, as you said, sir, and I cannot think of anything just now to speak of which would illustrate my point. But I cannot help thinking that your ideals and principles are so much higher and purer than those of most young men of to-day, that I may have fallen short of them in a great many ways of which you do not dream.” He moved back uneasily to his chair and dropped into it. “I do not mean in the more vital questions. I have done nothing dishonorable, nothing that I could not afford to do according to the world’s standard.”
The elder man looked at him, and a shade of annoyance and uneasiness crept into his face.
“Well?” he asked, finally.
Young Cahill looked up, and his frank, boyish face wore a rather perplexed, troubled expression.
“Well,” he said, “that’s all—unless—” he stopped suddenly and lit another cigar rather nervously.
“Unless what?” insisted the elder man, the uneasiness and annoyance betraying themselves in his voice.