Thompson smiled sardonically.  With hands clasped behind his head he surveyed the room deliberately, and the survey failed to please him.

“Hell,” he exploded suddenly.  “I’d ten times rather be out in the woods with a tent than have to live like this—­always.”

He had spent a pleasant three hours in surroundings that approximated luxury.  He had been graciously received and entertained.  However, it was easy to be gracious and entertaining when one had the proper setting.  A seven-room suite and two servants were highly desirable from certain angles.  Oh, well—­what the devil was the difference!

Thompson threw off his clothes and got into bed.  But he could not escape insistent thought.  Against his dull walls, on which the street light cast queer patterns through an open window, he could see, through drowsy eyes, Sophie half-buried in a great chair, listening attentively while he and her father talked.  Of course they had fallen into argument, sometimes triangular, more often solely confined to himself and Carr.  Thompson was glad that the Grant Street orators had driven him to the city library that winter.  A man needed all the weapons he could command against that sharp-tongued old student who precipitated himself joyfully into controversy.

But of course they did not spend three hours discussing abstract theories.  There was a good deal of the personal.  Thompson had learned that they were in San Francisco for the winter only.  Their home was in Vancouver.  And Tommy Ashe was still in Vancouver, graduated from an automobile salesman to an agency of his own, and doing well in the venture.  Tommy, Carr said, had the modern business instinct.  He did not specify what that meant.  Carr did not dwell much on Tommy.  He appeared to be much more interested in Thompson’s wanderings, his experiences, the shifts he had been put to, how the world impressed him, viewed from the angle of the ordinary man instead of the ministerial.

“If you wish to achieve success as modern society defines success, you’ve been going at it all wrong,” he remarked sagely.  “The big rewards do not lie in producing and creating, but in handling the results of creation and production—­at least so it seems to me.  Get hold of something the public wants, Thompson, and sell it to them.  Or evolve a sure method of making big business bigger.  They’ll fall on your neck and fill your pockets with money if you can do that.  Profitable undertakings—­that’s the ticket.  Anybody can work at a job.”

That sounded rather cynical and Thompson said so.  Carr laughed genially.  One couldn’t escape obvious conclusions, he declared.  Perhaps youth and enthusiasm saw it differently.