Great responsibilities had changed Hannibal Wharton into a machine; he had become mechanical even in his daily life, in his pleasures, in his relaxations. His suspicions and his dislikes were also more or less automatic, but in all his married life he had never found cause to complain of anything his wife had done. He was serenely conscious, moreover, of her complete accord with his every action, and now, therefore, in reporting Merkle's conversation he spoke musingly, as a man speaks to himself.
"John loves to be caustic; he likes to vocalize his dyspepsia," the old man muttered. "Well, if it's as serious as he seems to think, we may be spared the disgrace of a grandchild." Mrs. Wharton did not stir; there was something uncompromising in the rigid lines of her back and in her stiffly poised head. "People of her kind always have children," he continued, "and that's what I told Bob. I told him he was laying up trouble for himself."
"Bob had more to him than we thought," irrelevantly murmured the mother.
"More than we thought?" Hannibal shook his head. "Not more than I thought. I knew he had it in him; you were the one—"
"No, no! We both doubted. Perhaps this girl read him."
"Sure she read him!" snorted the father. "She read his bank-book. But I fooled her."
"Do you remember when Bob was born?"
"Eh?"
"Do you remember? I had trouble, too."
Into Hannibal's eyes came a slow and painful light of reminiscence.