The only evidence of advancing age was his absentmindedness from boylike brooding over the days of his courtship and marriage and his day dreams about his long-lost love. He recognised it at once and laid down his class work.
Gordon met him at the Grand Central Depot with keenest dread and embarrassment. Hurrying out of the crowd, they boarded a downtown car on Fourth Avenue.
The old man glanced uneasily about and said:
“Son, isn’t this car going down the avenue?”
“Yes, father. We are going to my hotel.”
“Hotel? I don’t want to go to a hotel. I want to go to your house. I want to see Ruth and the children at once.”
“We’ll go to my study at the church first, then, and I’ll explain to you.”
The old man’s brow wrinkled, and he pressed his lips tightly together to keep them from trembling.
Gordon was glad he had not yet given orders for the removal of his study, and when they entered he drew the lid of his roll-top desk down quickly, that his father might not see Kate’s picture where he had once seen Ruth’s.
“Of course, my boy,” the old man began, “I know there is some terrible mistake about this. I told my friends so at the College. But I couldn’t wait for a letter, and I couldn’t somehow understand your telegram. I’m getting a little old now, so I hurried on to see you. I’m sure if you and Ruth have quarreled you can make up and begin over again. Lovers’ quarrels are not so serious.”