"That is it," said Mr. Foote, shortly. "You are rid of that woman. …
I am willing to give you another chance."
Bonbright's hold upon himself was firm. "If you wish to continue this conversation you will not speak in that way of my wife. Let me make that very clear…. As to coming back to the office—there is nothing under heaven that would bring me back to what I escaped from. Nothing…. If I were ever to come it would have to be on terms of my own making, and you would never agree to them. And whatever terms you agreed to I should not come until you and mother—both of you—went to my wife and made the most complete apology for the thing you did to her in the theater that night…. I am not thinking of myself. I am thinking of her. My mother and father passed my wife and myself on our wedding night, in a public place, and refused to recognize us…. It was barbarous." Bonbright's voice quivered a trifle, but he held himself well in hand. "That apology must come before anything else. After you have made it, we will discuss terms."
"You—you—" Mr. Foote was perilously close to losing his dignity.
"No," said Bonbright; "on second thought, we will not discuss terms.
You can have my final reply now…. You have nothing to give me that
will take the place of what I have now. I will not come back to you.
Please understand that this is final."
Mr. Foote was speechless. It was moments before he could speak; then it was to say, in a voice that trembled with rage: "In the morning I shall make my will—and your name will not appear in it except as a renegade son whom I have disowned…, Probably you regarded the property as under entail and that it would come to you after me…. For six generations it has gone from father to son. You shall never touch a penny of it."
"I prefer it that way, sir."
Mr. Foote glared at his son in quite unrestrained, uncultured rage, and, whirling on his heel, strode furiously away. Bonbright looked after him curiously.
"I wonder how the thing missed out with me," he thought. "It worked perfectly six generations—and then went all to smash with me…. Probably I'd have been a lot happier…."
It had been a month since he saw Ruth. He had not wanted to see her; the thought of seeing her had been unbearable. But suddenly he felt as if he must see her—have a glimpse of her. He must see how she looked, if she had changed, if she were well…. He knew it would bring refreshed suffering. It would let back all he had rigidly schooled himself to shut out—but he must see her.
He set his will against it and resolutely walked away from the direction in which her apartment lay, but the thing was too strong for him. As a man surrenders to a craving which he knows will destroy him, yet feels a relief at the surrender, he turned abruptly and walked the other way.