“Perhaps I should see Bonbright,” he suggested.

“No,” said Mrs. Foote.  “He must come to you.  He’s got to have all his wildness crushed out of him.  He’ll come.  He must have had enough of it before this.”

But Bonbright did not come, showed no signs of coming, and Mr. Foote grew impatient, so impatient that he disregarded his wife’s advice.  He could not bring his pride to allow him to seek out Bonbright in person, but sent Hangar as his ambassador.

Rangar found Bonbright in his room, reading a book devoted to the ailments of the internal-combustion engine, and acquitted himself of his mission with that degree of diplomacy which his desire for success dictated.

“Well?” said Bonbright, as the door opened to admit the ambassador.

“Your father sent me, Mr. Foote.”

“Yes.”

“He has heard that—­er—­the marriage which caused your—­er—­ estrangement has ended as he feared.”

Bonbright arose slowly and walked toward Rangar, who appeared in two minds whether to remain or to depart to other places.

“Tell my father,” Bonbright said, “that I can appreciate his satisfaction.  Tell him also that if he has anything to say to me to say it in person. ...  That is all.”

“Your father—­”

“That is all,” repeated Bonbright, and Rangar made up his mind.  He slammed the door after him.

In the morning he reported to Mr. Foote, who compressed his lips at the recitation of his son’s words.  Let his son come to him, then, when he had eaten his fill of husks.

But Bonbright did not come.  After several days had elapsed Mr. Foote considered his duty, and interpreted it to impel him to call in person upon his son—­clothed in dignity and with the demeanor of outraged parenthood.  Mrs. Foote was not privy to the project.

He met his son descending the steps of the house where he boarded.  Bonbright could not have evaded his father if he would.  He stopped and waited for his father to speak.

“I have come to talk to you, Bonbright,” he said, severely.

“Very well, sir,” Bonbright said.

“I have come, not from inclination or delight in an interview which must be distasteful to both of us, but because I believe it my duty to point out the thanklessness of your conduct and to see if you cannot be brought to a proper sense of your obligations.”

“Our ideas of my obligations are rather far apart, sir.”

“They shouldn’t be.  You’re a mere boy—­my son.  You should derive your ideas from me until you are capable of formulating correct ideas yourself.”

“I’m afraid we can never agree on that,” said Bonbright, patiently.

“Your marriage has ended the way such marriages are fated to end,” said Mr. Foote.

“We will not discuss that, please,” said Bonbright.

“You made your own bed—­”

“And am not complaining about the discomfort of it.”