It was a difficult hour. Rocky had only his confused emotions to guide him, and his hurt heart. There were moments, even, when he didn't know why he had come. But he never thought of giving up. Whatever their curious relations, he had to see Mr. Doane, who was now the only stable figure in the rocking world about him. The man had been fine—square. That he knew now. And his nervous young imagination was veering toward hero-worship. He was utterly humble.
Naturally he was boyish about it, when they finally led him into that inner office. He said, flushing a little:
“I know you're busy, Mr. Doane—”
“Not too busy for you. I kept you waiting to clear up a lot of things.” The man's great size and calmness of manner—the question rose; had he ever in his life known weariness?—were comforting.
“I'm—sailing Saturday.”
This, for a brief moment, brought the kindly though strong and sober face to immobility.
“You see, sir, I've come to feel that the best thing for me is to go back and—-start clean.”
A slight mist came over Doane's eyes. What a struggle the boy had had of it! And how splendidly he was working through!.... Thought came about the children of the rich in America... the problem of it....
“I—couldn't go without seeing you. You see, sir, it's you, I guess, that've put me on my feet. I sort of—well, I want you to know that I am on them. It's been a strange experience, all round. A terrible experience, of course. It shakes you....”
“It has shaken me, too,” Doane observed simply.