The latter followed into the dining-room and they sat down. Opposite him on the wall was the portrait of his mother in her bridal-dress. A stately lady always, somewhat cold. She seemed to wear her bridal-veil as a kind of drapery for her pride. Morgan spread his large hands on the table and looked at them.
"I played like hell for it."
"No doubt. Go on."
He told his story coolly and without omission.
"I suppose you are a worse man than your brother," said the squire at last. "He is more scrupulous. I liked you better. You have more candor, carry more weight. I have not been a scrupulous man."
Morgan was looking at the portrait.
"What did you want me to lose for? You won."
"Won! No, I lost. So will you, soon or late. Better soon than late." He followed Morgan's eyes. "Your mother—I'd as lief she'd have died twenty years earlier."
"This sort of thing is futile, dad. Why don't you come out of your shell? Come and get into the push again."
"What for? From my standpoint and my age, Morgan, ask yourself—What for?"