“I don’t know that I care to go,” said Arthur.  “I’ve been thinking it over.  I believe I’ve got about all the good a university can do a man.  It seems to me a year or so abroad—­traveling about, seeing the world—­would be the best thing for me.  I’m going to talk it over with father—­as soon as he gets through being out of humor with me.”

Hiram did not look at his son, who glanced a little uneasily at him as he unfolded this new scheme for perfecting his education as “man of the world.”

“Surely your father’s not angry” cried Mrs. Whitney, in a tone intended to make Hiram ashamed of taking so narrow, so rural, a view of his son’s fashionable mischance.

“No,” replied Hiram, and his voice sounded curt.  He added, in an undertone:  “I wish I were.”

“You’re wrong there, Hiram,” said Mrs. Whitney, catching the words not intended for her, and misunderstanding them.  “It’s not a case for severity.”

Arthur smiled, and the look he gave his father was a bright indication of the soundness of his heart.  Severity!  The idea was absurd in connection with the most generous and indulgent of fathers.  “You don’t get his meaning, Mrs. Whitney,” said he.  “I, too, wish he were angry.  I’m afraid I’ve made him sad.  You know he’s got old-fashioned views of many things, and he can’t believe I’ve not really disgraced him and myself.”

“Do you believe it?” inquired Hiram, with a look at him as sudden and sharp as the ray of a search light.

“I know it, father,” replied Arthur earnestly.  “Am I not right, Mrs. Whitney?”

“Don’t be such an old fogy, Hiram,” said Mrs. Whitney.  “You ought to be thankful you’ve got a son like Arthur, who makes a splendid impression everywhere.  He’s the only western man that’s got into exclusive societies at Harvard in years simply on his own merits, and he’s a great favorite in Boston and in New York.”

“My children need no one to defend them to me,” said Hiram, in what might be called his quiet tone—­the tone he had never in his life used without drying up utterly the discussion that had provoked it.  Many people had noted the curious effect of that tone and had resolved to defy it at the next opportunity, “just to see what the consequences would be.”  But when the opportunity had come, their courage had always withered.

“You can’t expect me to be like you, father.  You wouldn’t, want it,” said Arthur, after the pause.  “I must be myself, must develop my own individuality.”

Ranger stopped and that stopped the others.  Without looking at his son, he said slowly:  “I ain’t disputing that, boy.  It ain’t the question.”  There was tremendousness in his restrained energy and intensity as he went on:  “What I’m thinking about is whether I ought to keep on helping you to ‘develop’ yourself, as you call it.  That’s what won’t let me rest.”  And he abruptly walked away.

Mrs. Whitney and Arthur stared after him.  “I don’t think he’s quite well, Artie,” she said reassuringly.  “Don’t worry.  He’ll come round all right.  But you ought to be a little more diplomatic.”