There was no more attractive figure on Fifth Avenue than Cleland Senior with the bright colour in his cheeks, his vigorous stride and his attire, so suitable to his fresh skin, sturdy years and bearing.
Meacham's eyes were lifted to his master, now. They were of the same age.
"Will you wear a black overcoat or a grey, sir?"
"I don't care. I'm going up to the nursery first. The nursery," he repeated, with a secret thrill at the word, which made him tingle all over in sheerest happiness.
"The car, sir?"
"First," said Cleland, "I must find out what Miss Stephanie wishes—or rather, I must decide what I wish her to do. Telephone the garage, anyway."
There was a silence; Cleland had walked a step or two toward the door. Now, he came back.
"Meacham, I hope I have done what was best. On her father's side there was good blood; on her mother's, physical health.... I know what the risk is. But character is born in the cradle and lowered into the grave. The world merely develops, modifies, or cripples it. But it is the same character.... I've taken the chance—the tremendous responsibility.... It isn't a sudden fancy—an idle caprice;—it isn't for the amusement of making a fine lady out of a Cinderella. I want—a—baby, Meacham. I've been in love with an imaginary child for a long, long time. Now, she's become real. That's all."
"I understand, sir."
"Yes, you do understand. So I ask you to tell me; have I been fair to Mr. James?"