“Back at last. Deuce of a long time, isn’t it?”
Mr. Carroll nodded gravely. “Longer than any one can imagine. I’ve missed you terribly, Stacey.”
The young man found himself wondering. Was it true? Was affection a real and vivid thing? He, Stacey, had had his life, such as it was, in these four years and a half. He had not missed his father, save in a mild way now and then. Well, his father, too, had had his own life. His days must have been taken up with business. He must have dined out frequently in the evenings or have had people to dinner. Had his thoughts truly clung to Stacey? Wasn’t it all half a convention? Between a child, helpless, appealing, undeveloped, and a father, protective, tender, apprehensive of a thousand infant dangers,—there, indeed, was a poignant relationship! Afterward?
Not that Stacey was not fond of his father. He was fond of him even now, but without pretence, decoration or melodrama. And, though he pursued these idle thoughts in a cool detached way, he was not quite cool, not quite detached. “You don’t look a day older, dad,” he said.
“No? I ought to. I feel older—or did till just now.” Mr. Carroll scrutinized his son’s face affectionately. “You look older, son,” he continued, “older in a good sense—grown up, surer of yourself. It’s made a man of you.”
Except for a faint sense of irony, this estimate produced no impression at all on the young man. He was simply not interested in the subject. However, his father pursued it pleasantly.
“Looking you over, five years ago, a business man would have said: ‘Charming boy, young, fresh, eager, full of ideas, but something of a dreamer.’ To-day he’d think: ‘There’s a strong man that I could put at the head of a big company’.”
“Careful, sir!” said Stacey. “Remember that anything you say may be used against you. I might take you up on that.”
A sudden gleam shone in Mr. Carroll’s eyes. “You mean that?” he demanded.
His son laughed. “Don’t really know yet. Maybe.”