"I have called on Miss Frazer," Bonbright said, unsteadily.
Mr. Foote stood up. It was his habit to stand up in all crises, big or little.
"Have you no respect for your family name?… If you must have things like this in your life, for God's sake keep them covered up. Don't be infernally blatant about them. Do you want the whole city whispering like ghouls over the liaison of my son with—with a female anarchist who is—the daughter of a boarding-house keeper?"
Liaison!… Liaison!… The foreign term beat again and again against Bonbright's consciousness before it gained admission. Used in connection with Ruth Frazer, with his relations with Ruth Frazer, it was dead, devoid of meaning, conveyed no meaning to his brain.
"Liaison, sir!… Liaison?" he said, fumblingly.
"I can find a plainer term if you insist."
For a moment Bonbright felt curiously calm, curiously cold, curiously detached from the scene. He regarded the other man…. This man was his father. His FATHER! The laws of life and of humanity demanded that he regard this man with veneration. Yet, offhand, without investigation, this man could jump to a vile conclusion regarding him. Not only that, but could accuse him, not of guilt, but of failing to conceal guilt!… Respectability! He knew he was watching a manifestation of the family tradition. It was wrong to commit an unworthy act, but it was a sin unspeakable to be caught by the public in the commission.
His mind worked slowly. It was a full half minute before the thought bored through to him that HE was not the sole nor the greatest sufferer by this accusation. It was not HE who was insulted. It was not HE who was outraged…. It was HER!
His father could think that of her—casually. The mere fact that she was poor, not of his station, a wage-earner, made it plain to the senior Foote that Ruth Frazer would welcome a squalid affair with his son…. The Sultan throwing his handkerchief.
Bonbright's calm gave place to turmoil, his chill to heat.