“I want to come in and talk with you if I may.”
Chase hesitated, even then; but—he had been lonely as Wint had been lonely. He stepped to one side and said: “Very well.” Wint went in, and his father shut the door, and bade Wint come into the room off the hall that served him as library, and office, and den. He did not tell Wint to take off his coat, so Wint kept it on. Chase sat down at his desk, Wint took a chair facing him. He did not know how to begin.
Chase said: “Well, what is it you want?”
Wint hesitated, then he smiled a little wistfully; and he said: “I want to be—friends with you again.”
His father abruptly looked away from him. Without looking at Wint, he asked:
“Why?”
Wint’s right hand moved in a curious, appealing way. “Isn’t it natural for a son to—want to be friends with his father, sir?” he suggested.
Chase said harshly: “I told you, once, that I no longer counted you my son.”
“Those things don’t go by what we want, sir,” Wint urged. “I—am your son. And you’re my father.”
“Have you acted as a son should?” Chase asked coldly.