“And what if I say that I do?” persisted Fenton at length, in a more amenable tone of voice.
“Well, if you do, would you make a bosom friend of a son of this receiver of stolen goods, who will, in all likelihood, come into the booty after a time, and whose blood is tainted by his descent from a line of land-pirates?”
“Nonsense, Richard! I don’t see the use of putting those questions to me—just at this time. If a man is by heredity a drunkard I may feel sorry for him, but it is not my duty to express my disapproval of his ancestors so long as he treats me decently.”
“That’s logical enough,” commented Richard enthusiastically. “I really begin to think, John, that you still have sense enough left not to let your economic theories and beliefs—convictions that, I have heard, sometimes make fanatics of those who hold them—ruin any chance that might come to you for great happiness in life.”
There was silence in the room for several minutes.
“It’s curious,” remarked Fenton musingly, “that you have taken just this tack, Richard. You have that faculty of intuition that is, for the most part, a feminine characteristic. I can see evidences of that peculiarity of mind in your work on the editorial page. You seem to reach at a bound deductions that most men would have to work out with painful effort.”
“You mean by that, John, that, to use the words of our professional President, it is a condition, not a theory, that confronts you, and that I know it.”
“I admit nothing, Richard,” said Fenton stubbornly, and looking at his watch.
“But,” persisted Richard, as his friend rose to go, “you believe that a man who holds real estate in New York—derived, let us say, from his Dutch ancestors—is the dishonest holder of ill-gotten gain?”
“This is unkind, Richard,” said Fenton, with more emotion in his voice than his friend had ever heard it express. “I have neither the inclination nor the time at present to explain my present position.”