They heard the front door open and shut, a footstep in the hall, then the door opened and John Grier came into the room.
Preoccupation, abstraction, filled his face, as he came forward. It was as though he was looking at something distant that both troubled and pleased him. When he saw Carnac he stopped, his face flushed. For an instant he stood unmoving, and then he held out his hand.
"So you've come back, Carnac. When did you get here?"
As Carnac released his hand from John Grier's cold clasp, he said: "A couple of hours ago."
The old man scrutinized him sharply, carefully. "Getting on—making money?" he asked. "Got your hand in the pocket of the world?"
Carnac shook his head. "I don't care much about the pocket of the world, but they like my work in London and New York. I don't get Royal Academy prices, but I do pretty well."
"Got some pride, eh?"
"I'm always proud when anybody outside Montreal mentions your name!
It makes me feel I have a place in the world."
"Guess you've made your own place," said the other, pleasure coming to his cheek. "You've got your own shovel and pick to make wealth."
"I care little about wealth. All I want is enough to clothe and feed me, and give me a little home."