Mr. Sparhawk was exceedingly good-humored; he nodded and smiled and agreed with the young man's frame of mind.
"I think I can quite understand what you mean," said he. "There are none of us desire to do a thing which we feel is not important. And it was your putting the ship aside and showing an interest in the counting-room and the exchange that made me hold them as the things important to you."
Anthony said nothing. Mr. Sparhawk took out a snuff-box; after offering it to the young man, he took a pinch and sat tapping the lid with one finger.
"It is a most interesting thing," said he, "to take note of what different men regard as important. Now, there was your grandfather, a careful, far-seeing man, and who gave a deal of attention to all the small matters of the firm. Then here is your uncle, who would not turn his head to look at one of them."
"Do not results tell when we are right?" asked Anthony.
"They should," said Mr. Sparhawk, "and probably they do. In your grandfather's day," with a nod of the head, "the house worked like a clock. It was regularity itself. One could count upon it absolutely."
"You don't find it so now?" said Anthony, and he looked at the little man keenly.
"Don't mistake my meaning," said Mr. Sparhawk. "It is still a steady house; it is still one to hold to with respect. But the steadiness is not of the same quality. Great strokes are made; fine things are done; but, between them, other things fail most singularly. There seem to be pitfalls, so to speak, where in old Rufus's day all would have been solid ground."
There was a short pause; Anthony laid his pipe upon the window-sill and studied the smiling, perky little man beside him. Then he spoke.
"Mr. Sparhawk," said he, "I wonder do you recall the night last fall when we met at the house of Dr. King."