“A second father,” said Sam carefully, not taking the opportunity of telling that Travers’ friendship had lasted beyond death. Perhaps he thought this moment too sacred for the intrusion of a legacy. “Of course,” he went on, “I’ve had all day to think of it, and of the difference this will make to me—to us, that is, Ada, for you and me.”
“What difference, Sam?” she asked sharply.
“It comes to this,” he said dejectedly, “that I am out of work and competition is so desperate. While he lived, I had his friendship behind me. Now—I don’t say that I’m afraid to stand alone. No doubt it will be good for me eventually, but, Ada, you see how it may postpone our hopes.”
Ada saw it. “Plotinus” took that opportunity of slipping from Peter’s knee, and Peter saw it, too, and sighed. “Oh, Sam!” said Ada.
“And,” said Sam, looking at Peter with a fine affectation of guilt, “there is my recklessness of last night. In my then circumstances, it was extravagant. To-day it looks worse than that.”
“You couldn’t know,” said Peter kindly.
“No,” Sam agreed. “I couldn’t know, and I have the feeling now that I must abide by what I did.”
“Very proper, Sam, but Mr. Adams is not poor and I should think that if you were to go to him———”
“Oh, please,” said Sam, “please don’t press me to do that. A bargain, I feel so strongly, is a bargain and should be kept at all costs.”
Peter felt silently ashamed of himself. “You are perfectly right,” he said.