“Oh, I can’t believe such things of Mr. Wingfield!” cried Addie; “he talks to me only of pictures and music. I can’t imagine him watching men pound each other.”
“He’s a fellow of first-rate ability,” observed Colonel Craighill, to whom Wingfield was a deplorable idler who had made no use of his talents. “But he has never justified his right to exist.”
“Why should he work merely to please his critics? If he took a job, it would throw somebody else out. What would you have him do?” Wayne demanded.
“Our rich young men have had too much notoriety; they have brought scandal upon the city!” ejaculated Colonel Craighill wrathfully and with unmistakable application.
“You oughtn’t to believe all you see in the yellow papers. Besides, Dick’s about the decentest man I ever knew. He doesn’t pretend to sole ownership in all the virtues. That’s why I like him so well.”
Colonel Craighill had frequently made these thrusts at Wingfield and to-night Wayne resented them more than usual. He turned to Addie, who had sought a book on the table and was studying the title page attentively during this interchange. She thought Wayne had not shown his father proper respect and the disturbance of the room’s tranquillity annoyed her.
“When do you head for the Hub, Addie?” Wayne asked.
“It’s to-morrow night, isn’t it, Roger?”
“Yes; to-morrow evening,” answered Colonel Craighill reaching for a magazine.
“Dick and I spend only a few days assailing the impenetrable fastnesses of the Philadelphia mind. Is there anything special coming up, father?”