The reply was of the simplest, and it was the end of argument.
“Father,” Dick said, very gently, “I can't.”
There followed a little period of quiet between the two. The father, from his desk, stood facing his son, who thus denied him in all honesty because the heart so commanded. The son rested motionless and looked with unflinching eyes into his father's face. In the gaze of each was a great affection.
“You're all I have, my boy,” the older man said at last. And now the big voice was a mildest whisper of love.
“Yes, Dad,” came the answer—another whisper, since it is hard to voice the truth of feeling such as this. “If I could avoid it, I wouldn't hurt you for anything in the world. I'm sorry, Dad, awfully sorry——” He hesitated, then his voice rang out clearly. There was in his tone, when he spoke again, a recognition of that loneliness which is the curse and the crown of being:
“But,” he ended, “I must fight this out by myself—fight it out in my own way.... And I'm going to do it!”
CHAPTER XVI. BURKE PLOTS.
The butler entered.
“A man to see you, sir,” he said.