The old man's stricken face shocked Peter. He was as much ashamed of himself as if he had kicked his father.
"I oughtn't to have told you, I know," he stammered. "Anyhow, not like this. I'm sorry."
Peter senior gathered himself together and feebly bluffed.
"You needn't be sorry," he blustered in a thin voice at the top of his throat. "What do I care whether you know or not? There's no disgrace in looking after my own business, I guess! To please Ena, I've made a sort of secret of it, that's all. I never 'promised.' I only let her and other folks it didn't concern suppose I lived in idleness, like the lords they admire so much. No harm in that! As for you, you're welcome to know what I do with my time when I go to New York. But it's none of your business, all the same, and you'd better keep still about it, or you'll regret your meddling. Who told you? That's what I want to get at. Who stuffed you up to the neck with all that damned nonsense about 'sweat and tears?' I bet it's the same man who tried to blackmail me with my own son about my going to the Hands nights."
"It wasn't a man who told me," said Peter, "it was a woman—or, rather, a girl. It was me she was blaming, not you. She thought I was responsible for the wrongs she and other employees suffer from. She didn't know it was a secret, your visiting the place. She simply mentioned it as a fact––"
"
And you, a son of mine, stood quietly listening to abuse of your father and the house that's made his fortune—his fortune and yours—from a pert young clerk in his store!"
At last Peter senior could speak with the voice of injured virtue. He could reach Peter junior with the well-deserved lash of reproach. But no! The lash striking out, touched air.
"Father, I listened because I love the girl," Peter answered "Wait, please! Let me explain. I fell in love with her on the Monarchic. Then something happened and I lost sight of her. Yesterday I found her at the Hands. I wanted to talk to her about love, but she made me listen to her instead. She said sharp things about the store that cut like knives. Don't think I'm accusing you if the Hands is a sweatshop. You trust Croft, and he's abused his trust. That must be it. For God's sake, give me a chance to help you put things straight."
For a moment—a long moment—Peter senior did not speak, and Peter junior would have given much to know where his thoughts had gone. They were away somewhere—with the Hands or with the girl who had made Petro listen.