“Young man,” he said, gruffly, “what’s this I hear?”

Bonbright looked up inquiringly.

“Come over here.”  Lightener jerked his head toward a private spot for conversation.  “About you and that little girl,” he said.

“I would rather not talk about it,” said Bonbright, slowly.

“But I’m going to talk about it.  It’s nonsense. ...”

Bonbright looked very much like his father; tall, patrician, coldly dignified.  “Mr. Lightener,” he said, “it is a thing we will not mention—­now or later.”  Seven generations contributed to that answer and to the manner of it.  It was final.  It erected a barrier past which even Malcolm Lightener could not force his way, and Lightener recognized it.

“Huh!...” he grunted, nonplused, made suddenly ill at ease by this boy.  For a moment he looked at Bonbright, curiously, appraisingly, then turned on his heel and walked away.

“Young spriggins put me in my place,” he said to Mrs. Lightener that evening.  “I wish I knew how to do it—­valuable.  Made me feel like he was a total stranger and I’d been caught in his hen house. ...  That Bonbright Foote business isn’t all bad by a darn sight.”

From that day Bonbright tried to work himself into forgetfulness.  Work was the only object and refuge of his life, and he gave himself to it wholly.  It was interesting work, and it kept him from too much thinking about himself. ...  If a man has ability and applies himself as Bonbright did, he will attract notice.  In spite of his identity Bonbright did attract notice from his immediate superiors.  It was more difficult for him, being who he was, to win commendation than it would have been for an unmarked young man in the organization.  That was because even the fairest-minded man is afraid he will be tempted into showing favoritism—­and so withholds justice. ...  But he forced it from his laborers-not caring in the least if he had it or not.  And word of his progress mounted to Malcolm Lightener.

His craving for occupation was not satisfied with eight hours a day spent in the purchasing department.  It was his evenings that he feared, so he filled them with study—­study of the manufacture of the automobile.  Also he studied men.  Every noon saw him in the little hash house; every evening, when he could arrange it so, saw him with some interested employee, boss, department boss, or somebody connected with Malcolm Lightener’s huge plant, pumping them for information and cataloguing and storing it away in his mind.  He tried to crowd Ruth out of his mind by filling it so full of automobile there would be no room for her. ...  But she hid in unexpected crannies, and stepped forth to confront him disconcertingly.

Gradually the laboring men changed their attitude toward him and tolerated him.  Some of them even liked him.  He listened to their talk, and tried to digest it.  Much he saw to call for his sympathy, much that they considered vital he could not agree with; he could not, even in a majority of things, adapt his point of view to theirs.  For he was developing a point of view.