Phil flushed red. There was an implied reproach in the old man’s words.
“Now, Phœbe is different,” continued the lawyer, leaning back in his chair with his elbows on the arms and joining the tips of his fingers together—a characteristic attitude. “Phœbe has a shrewd little head, full of worldly common sense and practical, if womanly, ideas. I’d a notion Phœbe would come to me to make these necessary inquiries.”
Phil slowly rose. His face was now white with anger, yet his voice scarcely trembled, as he said:
“Then, I’ll let her come to you. Good morning, sir.”
Mr. Ferguson nodded again.
“Yes,” he remarked, without altering his position, “my judgment of you was correct. You’ll be a man some day, Phil, and a good one; but, just now, you’re merely a stubborn, unformed boy.”
Phil paused with his hand on the knob of the door. To leave the office at this juncture would be humiliating and unsatisfactory. His nature was usually calm and repressed, and under excitement he had a way of growing more quiet and thinking more clearly, which is exactly the opposite of the usual formula with boys of his age. His strong resentment at the frank speech of the old lawyer did not abate, but he began to reason that a quarrel would be foolish, and if he intended to satisfy the doubts that worried him he must ignore the slight cast upon his character.
He laid down his hat and resumed his chair.
“After all, sir,” he said, “I’m the eldest boy and the head of the family. It is my duty to find out how we stand in the world, and what is necessary to be done to protect and care for my brother and sisters.”
“True enough, my lad,” rejoined the lawyer, in a hearty tone. “I’ll help you all I can, Phil, for your father’s sake.”