"I'm sorry, sir."
Such mildness of demeanor ought to have placated the father. But Everton was eyeing his son suspiciously.
"They tell me you're working. A lawyer's clerk."
"I'm Mr. Jarrod's private secretary, sir."
"Huh! Good job for a college man, isn't it? Nice investment I made when I sent you to Cornell."
Jim wondered what he would say if he knew he had until recently been a dry-goods clerk.
"Haven't you had about enough of this two-penny folly?" demanded his father, more harshly.
"Oh, I've discovered that I can earn my own living," said the boy, flushing.
"That isn't the point. I reared you with the expectation that you would be of some use to me when I grew old and feeble. That time has arrived. I need you to help look after the business. Look here: do you owe nothing to me?"
Jim examined the pattern on the rug.