"Quarrelled with you!"
Then the father told the story as well as he knew how. His son had lost some money, and he had called his son a gambler;—and consequently his son would not come near him. "It is bad to lose them both, Arthur."
"That is so unlike Everett."
"It seems to me that everybody has changed,—except myself. Who would have dreamed that she would have married that man? Not that I have anything to say against him except that he was not of our sort. He has been very good about Everett, and is very good about him. But Everett will not come to me unless I—withdraw the word;—say that I was wrong to call him a gambler. That is a proposition that no son should make to a father."
"It is very unlike Everett," repeated the other. "Has he written to that effect?"
"He has not written a word."
"Why don't you see him yourself, and have it out with him?"
"Am I to go to that club after him?" said the father.
"Write to him and bid him come to you. I'll give up my seat if he don't come to you. Everett was always a quaint fellow, a little idle, you know,—mooning about after ideas—"
"He's no fool, you know," said the father.