He patted the pale hand reassuringly, inclined himself affectionately, but Mr. Carteret was not easily soothed. He had practised lucidity all his life, had expected it of others and had never given his assent to an indistinct proposition. He was weak, yet not too weak to recognise that he had formed a calculation now vitiated by a wrong factor—put his name to a contract of which the other side had not been carried out. More than fifty years of conscious success pressed him to try to understand; he had never muddled his affairs and he couldn't muddle them now. At the same time he was aware of the necessity of economising his effort, and he would gather that inward force, patiently and almost cunningly, for the right question and the right induction. He was still able to make his agitation reflective, and it could still consort with his high hopes of Nick that he should find himself regarding mere vague, verbal comfort, words in the air, as an inadequate guarantee. So after he had attached his dim vision to his young friend's face a moment he brought out: "Have you done anything bad?"
"Nothing worse than usual," Nick laughed.
"Ah everything should have been better than usual."
"Well, it hasn't been that—that I must say."
"Do you sometimes think of your father?" Mr. Carteret continued.
Nick had a decent pause. "You make me think of him—you've always that pleasant effect."
"His name would have lived—it mustn't be lost."
"Yes, but the competition to-day is terrible," Nick returned.
His host considered this as if he found a serious flaw in it; after which he began again: "I never supposed you a trifler."
"I'm determined not to be."