“I don’t know,” said the other, musing.  “Of course the days of revolvers are past, but I love the feel of the butt against my palm—­I love the kick of the barrel tossing up—­I love the balance; and when I have a six-shooter in my hand, sir, I feel as if I had six lives.  Odd, isn’t it?” He grew excited as he talked, his eyes gleaming with dancing points of fire.  “And I’ll tell you this, sir:  I’d rather be out in the country where men still wear guns, where the sky isn’t stained with filthy coal smoke, where there’s an horizon wide enough to breathe in, where there’s man-talk instead of this damned chatter over tea-cups—­”

“Stop!” cried John Woodbury, and leaned forward, “no matter what fool ideas you get into your head—­you’re going to be a gentleman!”

The swaying forward of that mighty body, the outward thrust of the jaws, the ring of the voice, was like the crashing of an ax when armoured men meet in battle.  The flicker in the eyes of Anthony was the rapier which swerves from the ax and then leaps at the heart.  For a critical second their glances crossed and then the habit of obedience conquered.

“I suppose you know, sir.”

The father stared gloomily at the floor.

“You’re sort of mad, Anthony?”

Perhaps there was nothing more typical of Anthony than that he never frowned, no matter how angered he might be.  Now the cold light passed from his eyes.  He rose and passed behind the chair of the elder man, dropping a hand upon those massive shoulders.

“Angry with myself, sir, that I should so nearly fall out with the finest father that walks the earth.”

The eyes of the grey man half closed and a semblance of a smile touched those stiff, stern lips; one of the great work-broken hands went up and rested on the fingers of his son.

“And there’ll be no more of this infernal Western nonsense that you’re always reverting to?  No more of this horse-and-gun-and-hell-bent-away stuff?”

“I suppose not,” said Anthony heavily.

“Well, Anthony, sit down and tell me about tonight.”

The son obeyed, and finally said, with difficulty:  “I didn’t go to the Morrison supper.”

A sudden cloud of white rose from the bowl of Woodbury’s pipe.

“But I thought—­”

“That it was a big event?  It was—­a fine thing for me to get a bid to; but I went to the Wild West show instead.  Sir, I know it was childish, but—­I couldn’t help it!  I saw the posters; I thought of the horse-breaking, the guns, the swing and snap and dash of galloping men, the taint of sweating horses—­and by God, sir, I couldn’t stay away!  Are you angry?”

It was more than anger; it was almost fear that widened the eye of Woodbury as he stared at his son.  He said at last, controlling himself:  “But I have your word; you’ve given up the thought of this Western life?”

“Yes,” answered Anthony, with a touch of despair, “I have given it up, I suppose.  But, oh, sir—­” He stopped, hopeless.