“You did your part, sir.”
Chase hesitated, eyes on the floor. “I did my best for you, Wint,” he said. “I think I always meant to do what was—best for you. Did you always try to do what was best for me?”
“No,” said Wint.
“I don’t like our being at outs any better than you do,” Chase went on. “It looks bad; and it’s hard on your mother—and on me. Perhaps on you, too.”
Wint said nothing. He was thinking that his father’s thinning hair and lined face proved that the older man had—found it hard to be at outs with his son. He was ready to go a long ways to make it up to Winthrop Chase, Senior.
His father said abruptly, as though summarizing what had gone before:
“If you want to come home, Wint, I’ve no objection.”
Wint had not thought of this possibility, and he said so. “I did not come for that,” he told the older man. “I—just came to tell you, what I have told you.”
“I’m willing to accept what you say at face value,” said his father. “I understand you’ve—kept sober. I understand you’re studying. I’m ready to let you prove yourself.”
Wint smiled with quick satisfaction. “That’s a good deal for you to offer me, sir,” he said frankly.