Old Heythorp sighed.
“There's only one thing in life that matters—independence. Lose that, and you lose everything. That's the value of money. Help me up.”
Phyllis stretched out her hands, and the little dog, running down her back, resumed its perch on the window-sill, close to the blind cord.
Once on his feet, old Heythorp said:
“Give me a kiss. You'll have your satin tomorrow.”
Then looking at Bob Pillin, he remarked:
“Going my way? I'll give you a lift.”
The young man, giving Phyllis one appealing look, answered dully: “Tha-anks!” and they went out together to the taxi. In that draughtless vehicle they sat, full of who knows what contempt of age for youth; and youth for age; the old man resenting this young pup's aspiration to his granddaughter; the young man annoyed that this old image had dragged him away before he wished to go. Old Heythorp said at last:
“Well?”
Thus expected to say something, Bob Pillin muttered