Bonbright stopped in the library door, for he saw there not only his father, whom he had expected to see, but his mother also. He had not foreseen this. It made the thing harder to tell, for he realized in an instant how his mother would receive the news. He wished he had been less abrupt, but here he was and there could be no drawing back now. His mother was first to see him.

"Bonbright…" she said, rising.

He walked to her and kissed her, not speaking.

"Where have you been? Your father and I have been terribly worried. Why did you stay away like this, without giving us any word?"

"I'm sorry if I've worried you, mother," he said, but found himself dumb when he tried to offer an explanation of his absence.

"You have worried us," said his father, sharply. "You had no business to do such a thing. How were we to know something hadn't happened to you—with the strike going on?"

"It was very inconsiderate," said his mother.

There fell a silence awkward for Bonbright. His parents were expecting some explanation. He had come to give that explanation, but his mother's presence complicated the situation, made it more difficult. There had never been that close confidence between Mrs. Foote and Bonbright which should exist between mother and son. He had never before given much thought to his relations with her; had taken them as a matter of course. He had not given to her that love which he had seen manifested by other boys for their mothers, and which puzzled him. She had never seemed to expect it of him. He had been accustomed to treat her with grave respect and deference, for she was the sort of person who seems to require and to be able to exact deference. She was a very busy woman, busy with extra-family concerns. Servants had carried on the affairs of the household. Nurses, governesses, and such kittle-cattle had given to Bonbright their sort of substitute for mother care. Not that Mrs. Foote had neglected her son—as neglect is understood by many women of her class. She had seen to it rigidly that his nurses and tutors were efficient. She had seen to it that he was instructed as she desired, and his father desired, him to be instructed. She had not neglected him in a material sense, but on that highest and sweetest sense of pouring out her affection on him in childhood, of giving him her companionship, of making her love compel his love—there she had been neglectful…. But she was not a demonstrative woman. Even when he was a baby she could not cuddle him and wonder at him and regard him as the most wonderful thing in creation…. She had never held him to her breast as God and nature meant mothers to hold their babies. A mercenary breast had nourished him.

So he grew up to admire her, perhaps; surely to stand in some awe of her. She was his mother, and he felt vaguely that the relationship demanded some affection from him. He had fancied that he was giving her affection, but he was doing nothing of the sort…. His childish troubles had been confided to servants. His babyish woes had been comforted by servants. What genuine love he had been able to give had been given to servants. She had not been the companion of his babyhood as his father had failed to be the companion of his youth. … So far as the finer, the sweeter affairs of parenthood went, Bonbright had been, and was, an orphan….

"Have you nothing to say?" his father demanded, and, when Bonbright made no reply, continued: "Your mother and I have been unable to understand your conduct. Even in our alarm we have been discussing your action and your attitude. It is not one we expected from a son of ours…. You have not filled our hopes and expectations. I, especially, have been dissatisfied with you ever since you left college. You have not behaved like a Foote…. You have made more trouble for me in these few months than I made for my father in my life…. And yesterday—I would be justified in taking extreme measures with you. Such an outburst! You were disrespectful and impertinent. You were positively REBELLIOUS. If I had not more important things to consider than my own feelings you should have felt, more vigorously than you shall, my displeasure. You dared to speak to me yesterday in a manner that would warrant me in setting you wholly adrift until you came to your senses…. But I shall not do that. Family considerations demand your presence in our offices. You are to take my place and to carry on our line…. This hasn't seemed to impress you. You have been childishly selfish. You have thought only of yourself—of that thing you fancy is your individuality. Rubbish! You're a Foote—and a Foote owes a duty to himself and his family that should outweigh any personal desires…. I don't understand you, my son. What more can you want than you have and will have? Wealth, position, family? Yet for months you have been sullen and restless-and then openly rebellious…. And worse, you have been compromising yourself with a girl not of your class…."

"I could not believe my ears," said Mrs. Foote, coldly.

"However," said his father, "I shall overlook what has passed." Now came the sop he had planned to throw to Bonbright.

"You have been in the office long enough to learn something of the business, so I shall give you work of greater interest and responsibility…. You say, ridiculously enough, that you have been a rubber stamp. Common sense should have told you you were competent to carry no great responsibilities at first…. But you shall take over a part of my burden now…. However, one thing must come first. Before we go any farther, your mother and I must have your promise that you will discontinue whatever relations you have with this boarding-house keeper's daughter, this companion of anarchists and disturbers."

"I have insisted upon THAT," said Mrs. Foote. "I will not tolerate such an affair."

"There is no AFFAIR," said Bonbright, finding his voice. His young eyes began to glow angrily. "What right have you to suppose such a thing—just because Miss Frazer happens to be a stenographer and because her mother keeps a boarder! Father insulted her yesterday. That caused the trouble. I couldn't let it pass, even from him. I can't let it pass from you, mother."

"Oh, undoubtedly she's worthy enough," said Mr. Foote, who had exchanged a glance with his wife during Bonbright's outburst, as much as to say, "There is a serious danger here."

"Worthy enough!" said Bonbright, anger now burning with white heat.

"But," said his father, "worthy or not worthy, we cannot have our son's name linked in any way with a person of her class. It must stop, and stop at once."

"That you must understand distinctly," said Mrs. Foote.

"Stop!" said Bonbright, hoarsely. "It sha'n't stop, now or ever. That's what I came home to tell you…. I'm not a dumb beast, to be driven where you want to drive me. I'm a human being. I have a right to make my own friends and to live my own life…. I have a right to love where I want to—and to marry the girl I love…. You tried to pick out a wife for me…. Well, I've picked out my own. Whether you approve or not doesn't change it. Nobody, nothing can change it…. I love Ruth Frazer and I'm going to marry her. That's what I came home to tell you."

"What?" said his father, in a tone of one who listens to blasphemy.

Bonbright did not waver. He was strong enough now, strong in his anger and in his love. "I am going to marry Ruth Frazer," he repeated.

"Nonsense!" said his mother.

"It is not nonsense, mother. I am a man. I have found the girl I love and will always love. I intend to marry her. Where is there nonsense in that?"

"Do you fancy I shall permit such a thing? Do you imagine for an instant that I shall permit you to give me a daughter-in-law out of a cheap boarding house? Do you think I shall submit to an affront like that?… Why, I should be the laughingstock of the city."

"The city finds queer things to laugh at," said Bonbright.

"My son—" began Mr. Foote; but his wife silenced him. She had taken command of the family ship. From this moment in this matter Bonbright Foote VI did not figure. This was her affair. It touched her in a vital spot. It threatened her with ridicule; it threatened to affect that most precious of her possessions—the deference of the social world. She knew how to protect herself, and would attend to the matter without assistance.

"You will never see that girl again," she said, as though the saying of it concluded the episode.

Bonbright was silent.

"You will promise me NOW that this disgraceful business is ended.
NOW…. I am waiting."

"Mother," said Bonbright, "you have no right to ask such a thing. Even if I didn't love Ruth, I have pledged my word to her…"

Mrs. Foote uttered an exclamation indicative of her disgust.

"Pledged your word!… You're a silly boy, and this girl has schemed to catch you and has caught you…. You don't flatter yourself that she cares for you beyond your money and your position…. Those are the things she had her eye on. Those are what she is trading herself for…. It's scandalous. What does your pledged word count for in a case like this?… Your pledged word to a scheming, plotting, mercenary little wretch!"

"Mother," said Bonbright, in a strained, tense voice, "I don't want to speak to you harshly. I don't want to say anything sharp or unkind to you—but you mustn't repeat that…. You mustn't speak like that about Ruth."

"I shall speak about her as I choose…"

"Georgia!…" said Mr. Foote, warningly.

"If you please, Bonbright." She put him back in his place. "I will settle this matter with our son—NOW."

"It is settled, mother," said Bonbright.

"Suppose you should be insane enough to marry her," said Mrs. Foote. "Do you suppose I should tolerate her? Do you suppose I should admit her to this house? Do you suppose your friends—people of your own class—would receive her—or you?"

"Do you mean, mother," said Bonbright, his voice curiously quiet and calm, "that you would not receive my wife here?"

"Exactly that. And I should make it my business to see that she was received nowhere else…. And what would become of you? Everyone would drop you. Your wife could never take your position, so you would have to descend to her level. Society would have none of you."

"I fancy," said Bonbright, "that we could face even that—and live."

"More than that. I know I am speaking for your father when I say it. If you persist in this we shall wash our hands of you utterly. You shall be as if you were dead…. Think a moment what that means. You will not have a penny. We shall not give you one penny. You have never worked. And you would find yourself out in the world with a wife to support and no means of supporting her. How long do you suppose she would stay with you?… The moment she found she couldn't get what she had schemed for, you would see the last of her…. Think of all that."

"I've thought of all that—except that Ruth would care for my money. … Yesterday I left the office determined never to go into it again. I made up my mind to look for a job—any job—that would give me a living—and freedom from what Bonbright Foote, Incorporated, means to me. I was ready to do that without Ruth…. But the family has some claims to me. I could see that. So I came back. I was going to tell father I would go ahead and do my best…. But not because I wanted to, nor because I was afraid."

"You see," his mother said, bitingly, "it lasted a whole day with you."

"Mother!"

Bonbright turned to his father. "I am going to marry Ruth. That cannot be changed. Nothing can alter it…. I am ready to come back to the office—and be Bonbright Foote VII… and you can't guess what that means. But I'll do it—because it seems to be the thing I ought to do…. I'll come back if—and only if—you and mother change your minds about Ruth…. She will be my wife as much as mother is your wife, and you must treat her so. She must have your respect. You must receive her as you would receive me… as you would have been glad to receive Hilda Lightener. If you refuse—I'm through with you. I mean it…. You have demanded a promise of me. Now you must give me your promise—to act to Ruth as you should act toward my wife…. Unless you do the office and the family have seen the last of me." He did not speak with heat or in excitement, but very gravely, very determinedly. His father saw the determination, and wavered.

"Georgia," he said, again.

"No," said Mrs. Foote.

"The Family—the business." said Mr. Foote, uncertainly.

"I'd see the business ended and the Family extinct before I would tolerate that girl…. If Bonbright marries her he does it knowing how I feel and how I shall act. She shall never step a foot in this house while I live—nor afterward, if I can prevent it. Nor shall Bonbright."

"Is that final, mother?… Are you sure it is your final decision?"

"Absolutely," she said, her voice cold as steel.

"Very well," said Bonbright, and, turning, he walked steadily toward the door.

"Where are you going?" his father said, taking an anxious step after his son.

"I don't know," said Bonbright. "But I'm not coming back."

He passed through the door and disappeared, but his mother did not call after him, did not relent and follow her only son to bring him back. Her face was set, her lips a thin, white line.

"Let him go," she said. "He'll come back when he's eaten enough husks."

"He's GOT to come back…. We've got to stop this marriage. He's our only son, Georgia—he's necessary to the Family. HIS son is necessary."

"And hers?" she asked, with bitter irony.

"Better hers than none," said Mr. Foote.

"You would give in…. Oh, I know you would. You haven't a thought outside of Family. I wasn't born in your family, remember. I married into it. I have my own rights in this matter, and, Family or no Family, Bonbright, that girl shall never be received where I am received…. NEVER."

Mr. Foote walked to the window and looked out. He saw his son's tall form pass down the walk and out into the street—going he did not know where; to return he did not know when. He felt an ache in his heart such as he had never felt before. He felt a yearning after his son such as he had never known. In that moment of loss he perceived that Bonbright was something more to him than Bonbright Foote VII—he was flesh of his flesh and blood of his blood. The stifled, cramped, almost eliminated human father that remained in him cried out after his son….