“Don't go yet, Hugh,” he said.
“But you must be tired,” I objected.
“This sort of thing doesn't make a man tired,” he laughed, leading me back to the library, where he began to poke the fire into a blaze. “Sit down awhile. You must be tired, I think,—you've worked hard in this campaign, a good deal harder than I have. I haven't said much about it, but I appreciate it, my boy.” Mr. Watling had the gift of expressing his feelings naturally, without sentimentality. I would have given much for that gift.
“Oh, I liked it,” I replied awkwardly.
I read a gentle amusement in his eyes, and also the expression of something else, difficult to define. He had seated himself, and was absently thrusting at the logs with the poker.
“You've never regretted going into law?” he asked suddenly, to my surprise.
“Why, no, sir,” I said.
“I'm glad to hear that. I feel, to a considerable extent, responsible for your choice of a profession.”
“My father intended me to be a lawyer,” I told him. “But it's true that you gave me my—my first enthusiasm.”
He looked up at me at the word.