Malcolm Lightener was acting on impulse again.  He had no clear idea why he had sent for Bonbright, nor just what he should say when the boy came—­but he wanted to talk to him.  Lightener was angry—­angry because Bonbright’s father had rejected his proposition to manufacture engines; more angry at the way Mr. Foote had spoken concerning his son.  In the back of Lightener’s mind was the thought that he would show a Foote. ...  Just what he would show him was not determined.

Bonbright came in.  He was not the Bonbright of six months before.  The boy in him was gone, never to return.  He had lost none of his old look of breeding, of refinement, of blood—­but he had lost that air which rich young men bear about with them.  It is an air, not of carelessness, precisely, but of absence of care; a sort of nonchalance, bred of lack of responsibilities and of definite ambitions.  It is an air that makes one think of them that they would fit better into the scenery of a country club or a game of golf than into an office where men strain their intelligence and their bodies to attain important aims.  This was gone with his boyishness.  In its place was an alertness, an awakeness, born of an interest in affairs.  His eyes were the eyes of a man who concentrated much, and was keenly interested in the object of his concentration.  His movements were quicker.  He seemed to see and catalogue more of what was going on about him.  If one had seen him then for the first time, the impression received would have been that here was a very busy young man who was worth watching.  There was something aggressive about him.  He looked competent.

One could not question that his new life had improved him, but it had not made him happy.  It would be absurd to say that he looked sad.  A boy of his age cannot look ead continually, unless sadness is a pose with him, which he is enjoying very much indeed.  But Bonbright was no poser. ...  And he did not look happy.  There were even times when there was a worn, haggard look about his eyes when he came down in the morning.  This was when he had allowed himself to think too much.

“Just came from your father’s office,” said Lightener.  “I offered him a chance to clean up half a million a year—­and he turned it down... because his great-grandfather might not like it.”

Bonbright understood perfectly.  He knew how his father would do such a thing.  Lightener’s statement seemed to call for no reply, so he made none.

“I wanted to look at you,” said Lightener, “to make sure you aren’t anything like him. ...  But you are like him.  You stand like him and you look like him—­only you don’t.  If I thought you’d grow to think the way he does I’d send you to the cashier for your pay, in a second.  But I don’t believe it.”  He scowled at Bonbright.  “No, by Jove! you don’t look it.”

“I don’t think father and I are much alike,” said Bonbright, slowly.

Lightener switched the subject.  “You ought to know considerable about this business.  Been here six months.  From what I hear you’ve picked up quite a lot outside of office hours.”