The meshes of the net were very narrow. Christopher sat with his head on his hands. He could waste no force in inventing reasons, neither could he explain the intangible truth. It was a fight of wills solely.
“I can’t do it,” said Christopher doggedly.
“You are only a boy, but I credit you with more common-sense and a better eye for business than many young men double your age. What displeases you in my offer? Where do you want it altered?”
“I don’t want it at all, Mr. Masters. I won’t accept it. I don’t think my reason matters at all. I know I shall never do so well, but I refuse.”
“There are others who would take it. Suppose you are forestalled?”
Christopher looked him straight in the eyes.
“It’s a fair fight so far.”
“A fight is always fair to the winner,” returned Masters grimly. There was a silence. The next thrust reached the heart of the matter.
“What is your objection to dealing with me?”
Peter Masters leant forward as he spoke and put a 248 finger on the other’s knee; his hard, keen eyes sought the far recesses of his son’s mind, but they did not sink deep enough to read his soul. Christopher struggled with the impetuous words, the direct bare truth that sought for utterance. Truth was too pure and subtle a thing to give back here. When he answered it was in his old deliberate manner, as he had answered Fulner—as he would invariably answer when he mistrusted his own judgment.