"Oh, yes," said Brett; "she does."
He had succeeded in making Mr. Callender laugh.
"But," Brett went on, "I'd like your permission to go on trying."
"You have it," said her father. "Will you and Powers dine with me?"
"No," said Brett. "Speaking as candidate to be your son-in-law, you cannot afford to give us dinner; and in the same way I cannot afford to buy dinner for you and Powers. So Powers will have to be host and pay for everything. I shall explain it to him…. But look here, sir, are you really up against it?"
To Brett's consternation, Callender suddenly buried his face in his hands and groaned aloud.
"Don't," said Brett; "some one's coming."
Callender recovered his usual poise with a great effort. But no one came.
"As far as my wishes go, sir," said Brett, "I'm your son. You never had a son, did you? If you had a son, and if he were young and resilient, you'd talk to him and explain to him, and in that way, perhaps, you'd get to see things so clearly in your own mind that you'd be able to think a way out. Why don't you talk to me as if I were your son? You see I want to be so very much, and that's half the battle."
Callender often joked about his affairs, but he never talked about them. Now, however, he looked for a moment keenly into the young man's frank and intelligent face, hesitated, and then, with a grave and courtly bow, he waved his hand toward two deep chairs that stood in the corner of the room half facing each other, as if they themselves were engaged in conversation.