Chagrin, sobriety, martial music and hereditary war-spirit were doing their work.
Half-way along Main Street, in front of an imposing mercantile establishment, Dad halted. Tightening his lips and setting his jaw, he turned in at the open double doors. Down a long aisle he walked, looking neither to left nor to right, nor seeing the amused and knowing glances of sundry clerks he passed.
At a door marked “Private,” at the far end of the store, he paused; his knuckles raised to knock on the glass. Then he changed his mind and, opening the door, entered unbidden.
He walked with something of swagger into a pleasantly appointed office, at whose fumed-oak desk sat a dapper man of early middle-age.
The man at the desk looked up in momentary vexation at this abrupt advent. Then, recognizing his visitor, his somewhat ascetic face took on a look of patient civility.
“Good-morning, father,” he said, rising. “Is anything the matter?”
“You ask because I came into a store I used to own?” inquired the older man.
“Why, no. Of course not. You are always welcome. I only asked—”
“All right. I’m sorry I spoke as I did. I’m not quite myself to-day, and—”
He paused as he saw an expression of worry replace the patient courteous look he had come to loathe on his son’s countenance.