When Ben reported to his father that evening the result and the details of his visit to the McCormack home, the grim smile that occasionally illumined Mr. Barriscale’s face spread perceptibly over it.
“And what uncomplimentary thing,” he asked, “did Miss Halpert have to say about me this time?”
“Why, she said you thought you were always right and the other fellow wrong; that I patterned too much after you, and that if I wanted to get on with people I’d have to cut it out.”
A slight flush overspread Mr. Barriscale’s face, but he showed no resentment. On the contrary his smile deepened into a perceptible chuckle. Sarah Halpert was the only person in the city, or in any other city for that matter, who dared to tell him unpleasant things about himself. And, strange as it may seem, he never resented her criticism nor opposed her will. Indeed, he seemed to appreciate her frankness and esteem her friendship.
“Well,” he said, after a moment, “she told you to fix things up with young McCormack, did she?”
“Yes. And she told me that if he ever called me a puppy again I should smash his face, and she’d back me up in it.”
At this the elder Barriscale laughed outright. But Ben hastened to add:
“That is, if I didn’t deserve to be called a puppy.”
“A very wise condition. Miss Halpert usually sees both sides of every question. You take her advice and you won’t go far wrong.”