He made a quick gesture.
“No, you wouldn’t ask them; but you couldn’t refuse to let them have shares in a great—And there would be business men who would know how to organize—”
He interrupted. “Margaret, you’re dreaming. You know how I am; it’s impossible for me to exploit myself. I might not tell them if they asked.” He went on sadly: “I was thinking to-night that none of them knew I was—a failure.”
Her arm was around his neck again; her lips on his cheek. “You’re not!” she cried vehemently. “Success isn’t all making money; success is being somebody, something. And you’re that. There’s nobody so wonderful—” She flew back without a pause. “But that’s not what we’re talking about. John, you know how I’d guard your self-respect—and I want you to do this. It might mean everything. If you could only, this year, get the aeroplane started, Jacky could go to Yale.” A thrill shook her; his arm around her, he felt it, and his will and his pride were like wax in a flame.
“Where is Jacky?” he demanded.
“He had to go to the office after dinner”; she spoke reluctantly. “Extra work. But it means extra pay, and he won’t be late to-night.”
He groaned. “The boy is only seventeen; he ought to be studying and playing tennis; I can’t bear to have him spend his youth and strength in a railway office.”
“Don’t worry, dear; Jacky is boiling with youth and strength. And he’s enchanted to make money.”
Again Ellsworth groaned. “It’s wrong; it’s my fault.” He got up and paced the room; his soul was in torment. He went on fiercely: “If I were a steady-going dry-goods man; if I knew how to run a paper factory! Fool! I’m good for nothing. If I could make hair-pins!” he added longingly.
The woman laughed. “You’re so absurd, John,” she said.