It was just two years after Jill’s baby had been born that a very wonderful thing occurred; Mr St. John senior visited Thompkins and Co. for no less a purpose than calling upon his son’s wife. He did not come unexpectedly; he wrote a week beforehand apprising them of the fact, and duly on the appointed date he pushed open the outer door and entered the mean little shop, standing in it, as it were, protestingly, his hat off, his shoulders slightly bowed; tall, and cross, and dignified—frowning at his son. St. John came forward quickly. He was expecting his father but pride forbade his making any preparation. He had been in the studio during the early part of the afternoon and was still in his working clothes though Jill had suggested to him the propriety of changing, but he had chosen to ignore the suggestion, arguing that that which was good enough for his wife should be good enough for his father too; and so he came forward as he was and stood in front of the visitor just as he might have done had he been any ordinary customer. The old man’s glance travelled slowly from the strong face with its proud smile to the shabby suit of clothes, the stains upon them testifying to the nature of the wearer’s work, and his carelessness as an operator. As he looked he smiled also. It was not a pleasant smile, and the younger man silently resented it.
“Photography does not appear a very lucrative employment,” he observed.
“No,” answered St. John. “At least I do not find it so.”
“Ah! Well, no doubt that assists you to realise the mistake you made.”
“I made no mistake,” the other interrupted shortly. “If you refer to my marriage that is the one thing I have never—and shall never regret.”
“Yet it has been the means of reducing you to your present strait.”
“Pardon me,” retorted the younger man, “want of a profession, and not my marriage, has been the means of my poverty. If I failed in my duty to you as a son remember that you in the first place failed in your duty to me.”
The grey brows drew together over the high-bridged nose, and the old eyes glared angrily into the young, indignant ones.
“I brought you up to the profession of a gentleman,” Mr St. John remarked.
“If by the ‘profession of a gentleman’ you mean a dependent beggar—a parasite—a less than menial,” rejoined the son, “you did. And until I met Jill I was not man enough to feel the degradation of it.”