“Suppose I tell you not to?”
Wint said wistfully: “I hope you won’t, sir, because—I’m going to.”
Chase nodded. “I suppose so,” he agreed. “Well, Wint—you’re a grown man. I shall not try to treat you—like a boy. Not again. I’m leaving it to you, Wint.”
Wint said quickly: “I’m glad.” He got up and, without either’s suggestion, they shook hands, and looked into each other’s eyes for a moment.
“All right,” said Chase. “I’ll tell your mother not to expect you for supper.”
“Try to make her understand, will you?”
His father smiled. “Your mother doesn’t always understand,” he said. “But—she loves you, Wint.”
“I know....”
He hesitated, wondering whether he should tell his father about Hetty. She had been sullen, avoiding his eyes, when she served breakfast. His father, or his mother, had a right to know.
Yet Wint could not bring himself to tell them. There would be no charity in them for the girl. And Wint had an infinite deal of tolerance for her. Give her a chance. He would not tell them. Not yet, at least. It could wait for a while.