"Hello!" he called. "That you, McGrath? Good. Have you examined those——? Yes. Can you come up and talk to us about them at once? Yes. Very well. Please do so."
He replaced the receiver and turned about. His keen eyes were regarding his son affectionately. There was pride in them, too. His only son represented the whole of his life's interests and ambitions.
"You have most of your life before you. Most of mine is behind me. You, my boy, have been brought up, as far as was possible to me, in all the simple, beautiful beliefs which belonged to your dear mother. I was brought up to the hard life of commercial competition, and all the moral looseness which that implies. As time goes on I fear many of your splendid temples and shrines will be shattered. This must be so, and it is right. With the passing of youth you will gain a true perspective of human worth. And when that perspective is attained, if I have any understanding of my own son, he will not be unduly affected by it. That perspective is already mine, I believe, and, since I am first and foremost a commercial man, you will forgive me if I reduce my understanding to mere percentages. With exceptions, of course, I have found that human nature's sense of duty is made up of about 75 per cent. of regard for itself, 24 per cent. of regard for the duties of other people towards life, and about 1 per cent. of the milk of human kindness. So that—— Ah, here is McGrath."
Sir Andrew turned sharply from the amused gaze of his son to the newcomer. Ian McGrath was a powerfully built Scot. The sense of strength was displayed in almost every detail of his appearance. In his short, bristling, iron-grey hair, his extremely decided, plain features; the deep-set eyes, the long nose; the hard mouth, and harder chin and jaw. Even his build and his gait were loud in their assertion of his normal characteristics. The broad, lean shoulders, and generally loose-limbed body was propelled swiftly and alertly at all times.
He had thrust his way in without heralding his coming, and he came swiftly towards his employer's desk. His position as chief engineer and marine architect to the Farlow, Son and Farlow Line at Dorby left him upon an extremely intimate footing with the heads of the firm.
But just now his manner was even more confident than usual. There was a light almost of enthusiasm in his usually cold eyes. He paused at the desk and deposited the rolls of drawings he had in his hands upon the table. Then his eyes turned upon the recumbent Ruxton, and, in a moment, came back almost defiantly to his white-headed chief.
"They're the most exquisitely drawn plans I've ever seen, Sir Andrew," he said, in a peculiarly metallic voice. "If I believed in genius I'd say they are the work of one."
"Sit down, McGrath," said Sir Andrew pleasantly. "We've got to have a talk."
Mr. McGrath promptly deposited himself in the nearest chair, and again his questioning eyes passed from one to the other of his employers.
Sir Andrew drew the plans towards him and idly turned over the sheets and tracings. He was not considering them. He was thinking. Thinking rapidly, as was his habit when engaged upon the work of his enterprise.