Robert found Mr. Hamilton walking up and down the porch, chewing the end of his cigar.
“That was a tremendous thing, governor,” said Robert, “I think the most tremendous thing in my life.
“I shall never forget it as long as I live. And I want to take an active interest in it. Now—”
He hesitated. Mr. Hamilton cleared his throat.
“Now,” Robert continued. “I’m ready to start in again. My wound is practically well, I’ve had a good rest and I mean to pitch in wherever I’m wanted.”
“I wanted you to have a good rest, Bob, before I told you. Let’s sit down over here on the bench. We’ve seen this moment coming a long time—mother and I—and we’ve shrunk from it. I suppose you’ve noticed a change here?”
Robert had. Little changes. Only Mammy Chloe and George were left of the five servants. Only one car. Only one horse. Little things like that. And then, he suddenly remembered, the office had been closed in New York.
“Oh, I thought,” he was going to say that they were economizing, “I don’t know what I thought. I guess I didn’t think about it at all.”
“Well, the war has made some men, but it’s broken me. Not completely, but—” he waved his cigar. “There’s enough for us to live on the rest of our lives—that is the three of us—although on a slightly reduced scale. Oh, there’s nothing to worry about. Only, only, it isn’t what I had planned for you.” His voice broke and he pretended to relight his cigar.
They had often talked over their plans. Robert was to learn the more important aspects of the business, eventually succeed his father as president, leaving the details, however, to a competent staff. His income would enable him to live according to his own ideas of life—to ride, to hunt, to fish, to play tennis, to acquire the easy culture that comes with leisure, to surround himself with a society of men and women of similar tastes and to patronize, perhaps even essay, the arts. The older Hamilton had been able, in a measure, to live in accordance with these ideas.