Morton glowered at Clifford. “If that’s the case, of course, I apologize. But the question is, where’s he been all this time?”
“It seems to me,” put in Mary in the same quiet voice, “that the most important question is, what are you going to do with him?”
“Do with him?” demanded Morton, staring at her. “What’s in your mind?”
Clifford had been, and still was, asking himself those same questions.
Mary, standing between the two men, gazed very calmly at Mr. Morton. “You’ve had Jack in charge for twenty-five years—and in there you see your work. He was with me awhile; during that short time he tried to be, and was, a man. It’s up to you to choose.”
Morton stared—blinked his eyes—drew a deep breath. “Am I getting you right? Are you suggesting that Jack come back to you?”
Clifford now began to understand; though he had no idea—nor perhaps did she, for that matter,—of the degree to which she was moved by the tearful figure of Maisie Jones, breathing, “You are big—wonderful!”
“I think I might make a man of him,” she said.
“You mean to resume on the old basis—the discreet Riverside Drive affair—and all that?”
“Just that. I’ll do my best for him—provided he comes with your knowledge and consent.”