It was the first time the thought of his “rights”—­of the share of his father’s estate that would be his when his father was no more—­had definitely entered his head.  That he would some day be a rich man he had accepted just as he accepted the other conditions of his environment—­all to which he was born and in which consisted his title to be regarded as of the “upper classes,” like his associates at Harvard.  Thinking now on the insinuated proposition that his father might disinherit him, he promptly rejected it.  “No danger of his doing that,” he assured her, with the utmost confidence.  “Father is an honest man, and he wouldn’t think of anything so dishonest, so dishonorable.”

This view of a child’s rights in the estate of its parents amused Mrs. Whitney.  She knew how quickly she would herself cut off a child of hers who was obstinately disobedient, and, while she felt that it would be an outrage for Hiram Ranger to cut off his son for making what she regarded as the beginning of the highest career, the career of “gentleman,” still she could not dispute his right to do so.  “Your father may not see your rights in the same light that you do, Arthur,” said she mildly.  “If I were you, I’d be careful.”

Arthur reflected.  “I don’t think it’s possible,” said he, “but I guess you’re right.  I must not forget that I’ve got others to think of besides myself.”

This patently meant Janet; Mrs. Whitney held her discreet tongue.

“It will do no harm to go to the office,” she presently continued.  “You ought to get some knowledge of business, anyhow.  You will be a man of property some day, and you will need to know enough about business to be able to supervise the managers of your estate.  You know, I had Janet take a course at a business college, last winter, and Ross is in with his father and will be active for several years.”

* * * * *

Thus it came about that on Monday morning at nine Arthur sauntered into the offices of the mills.  He was in much such a tumult of anger, curiosity, stubbornness, and nervousness as agitates a child on its first appearance at school; but in his struggle not to show his feelings he exaggerated his pose into a seeming of bored indifference.  The door of his father’s private room was open; there sat Hiram, absorbed in dictating to a stenographer.  When his son appeared in the doorway, he apparently did not realize it, though in fact the agitation the young man was concealing under that unfortunate manner was calmness itself in comparison with the state of mind behind Hiram’s mask of somber stolidity.

“He’s trying to humiliate me to the depths,” thought the son, as he stood and waited, not daring either to advance or to retreat.  How could he know that his father was shrinking as a criminal from the branding iron, that every nerve in that huge, powerful, seemingly impassive body was in torture from this ordeal of accepting the hatred of his son in order that he might do what he considered to be his duty?  At length the young man said:  “I’m here, father.”