Malcolm Lightener re-entered the room.
"Clear out, honey," he said to his daughter. "Foote and I have got to make medicine."
She arose. "If he rumbles like a volcano," she said to Bonbright, "don't be afraid. He just rumbles. Pompeii is in no danger."
"You GIT," her father said.
"Now," he said when they were alone, "what's to pay?"
"I don't know."
"Will your father raise the devil? Maybe you'd like to have me go along when you interview him."
"I think I'd rather not."
Lightener nodded with satisfaction.
"Well, then—I've kind of taken a shine to you. You're a young idiot, all right, but there's something about you…. Let's start off with this: You've got something that's apt to get you into hot water. Either it's fool curiosity or genuine interest in folks. I don't know which. Neither fits into the Bonbright Foote formula. Six generations of 'em seem to have been whittled off the same chip—and then the knife slipped and you came off some other chip altogether. But the Foote chip don't know it, and won't recognize it if it does…. I'm not going to criticize your father or your ancestors, whatever kind of darn fools I may personally think they are. What I want to say is, if you ever kick over the traces, drop in and tell me about it. I'll see you on your road."