“You've had enough, Gibbs. We'll go into the library,” he said coldly.
“Oh, come now, Jake—don't we make a night of it?” expostulated Gibbs. But Benson merely pushed back his chair and rose from the table. Stephen followed his example, and the general scrambled uncertainly to his feet. He took Stephen by the arm in an access of affection.
“He screws me down most damnably, Steve—cross him, and you'll find him a tyrant; he knows I wanted to celebrate your return—the return of the native—it's an event! Jake and I here are selfmade men, but you belong to the old aristocracy. You may not think it, but the West's had its first families.”
“I always supposed the Bensons were of their number,” said Stephen.
“The Bensons! Shop-keepers, Steve—mere money getters; isn't that so, Jake?”
“I fear it is, Gibbs,” said Benson laughing, as he led the way from the room.
In the library the general promptly fell asleep in his chair. The lawyer nodded toward him.
“You'll find him better than he looks,” he said.
“He seems devoted to you,” said Stephen, at a loss for anything else to say in his favour.
“Yes, so he is.” Benson was thoughtful for a moment. “I shouldn't have permitted him to get in this condition,” he said with real concern. “It won't please my cousin, and I owed it to him to see that he did not. You must be tired. I'll call Andrew and have him take Gibbs home.”