On that evening when he had gone down to see what a mob was like he had no point of view, only curiosity.  He had leaned neither toward his father’s striking employees nor against them. ...  His attitude was much the same now—­with a better understanding of the problems involved.  He was not an ultracapitalist, like his father, nor a radical like Dulac. ...  One thing he believed, and that was in the possibility of capital and labor being brought to see through the same eyes.  He believed the strife between them, which had waged from tune immemorial, was not necessary, and could be eliminated. ...  But as yet he had no cure for the trouble.

He did not lean to socialism.  He was farther away from that theory than he was from his father’s beliefs.  He belonged by training and by inheritance to the group of employers of labor and utilizers of capital. ...  Against radicalism he had a bitter grievance.  Radicalism had given him his wife—­for reasons which he heard expressed by laboring men every day.  He had no patience with fanaticism; on the other hand, he had little patience with bigotry and intolerance.  His contact with the other side was bringing no danger of his conversion. ...  But he was doing what he never could have done as heir apparent to the Foote dynasty—­he was asserting in thought his individuality and forming individual opinions. ...  His education was being effectively rounded out.

News of the wrecking of Bonbright’s domestic craft came to his father quickly, carried, as might have been anticipated, by Hangar.

“Your son is not living with his wife, Mr. Poote,” Rangar announced.

“Indeed!” said Mr. Foote, concealing both surprise and gratification under his habitual mask of suave dignity.  “That, I fear, was to have been anticipated. ...  Have you the particulars?”

“Only that she is living in their apartment, and he is boarding with one of the men in his department at Lightener’s.”

“Keep your eye on him, Rangar—­keep your eye on him.  And report.”

“Yes, sir,” said Rangar, not himself pleased by the turn affairs had taken, but resolved to have what benefit might lie thereabouts.  His resentment was still keen to keep him snapping at Bonbright’s heels.

The breach between himself and his son had been no light blow to Mr. Foote.  It threatened his line.  What was to become of Bonbright Foote, Incorporated, with no heir to hand the business over to when his hands could drop it?  He wanted his son, not as a father wants his son, but because a Bonbright Foote VII was requisite.  He had hoped for this thing that had happened; indeed, had felt confident it would happen, and that he would have Bonbright back unencumbered, purged of nonsense.

He spoke of it with satisfaction to his wife when he returned to his home that afternoon to take up the important matter of adding to the manuscript of his philosophical biography of the Marquis Lafayette.