“No. Let me tell him,” she said gently.
She looked up at him proudly. After all, he was hers. If anyone chose to care a great deal about him, why, that other was only caring for her boy. Even if he cared a great deal about someone else, it was still her boy who was caring.
They reached the Waldemere.
“Mr. Barnes has been inquiring for you,” announced the clerk.
“I have been to walk with my son,” she informed him.
CHAPTER XXI
AN OLD PRODIGAL COMES HOME
Mrs. Barnes retired that night with uneasy foreboding, leaving father and son together. As she went out, she patted her son’s shoulder and stooping pressed her lips against his light hair.
Horatio Barnes watched her until the curtains closed behind her, and then faced his son determinedly. He was taller than the latter and heavier. His smooth-shaven face was pale and clouded. A physician would have noted many little danger signals. His expression was that of a man who has summoned all his reserve strength to some grim crisis. Barnes was surprised at the change which had taken place even in the short time he had been away. Aggressiveness had degenerated into petulance; self-confidence into bull-headedness. Yet below all this he saw an outcropping of sentiment which surprised him.
“Well,” demanded the father, lighting a black cigar, “what do you propose to do now?”
“Paint,” answered Barnes, “harder than ever.”