CHAPTER XXVI
Hilda knew her father. He could not keep his hands off any matter that interested him, and most matters did interest him. He had grown to have an idea that he could take hold of almost any sort of tangle or enterprise or concern and straighten it out. Probably it was because he was so exceedingly human…. Therefore he was drawn irresistibly to his purchasing department and to Bonbright Foote.
"Young man," he said, gruffly, "what's this I hear?"
Bonbright looked up inquiringly.
"Come over here." Lightener jerked his head toward a private spot for conversation. "About you and that little girl," he said.
"I would rather not talk about it," said Bonbright, slowly.
"But I'm going to talk about it. It's nonsense…."
Bonbright looked very much like his father; tall, patrician, coldly dignified. "Mr. Lightener," he said, "it is a thing we will not mention—now or later." Seven generations contributed to that answer and to the manner of it. It was final. It erected a barrier past which even Malcolm Lightener could not force his way, and Lightener recognized it.
"Huh!…" he grunted, nonplused, made suddenly ill at ease by this boy. For a moment he looked at Bonbright, curiously, appraisingly, then turned on his heel and walked away.
"Young spriggins put me in my place," he said to Mrs. Lightener that evening. "I wish I knew how to do it—valuable. Made me feel like he was a total stranger and I'd been caught in his hen house…. That Bonbright Foote business isn't all bad by a darn sight."