Father and son entered the long-closed office, a large, indeed a stately room.  It contained the same mahogany table at which Bonbright Foote II had worked; the same chairs, the same fittings, the same pictures hung on the walls, that had been the property of the first crown prince of the Foote dynasty.  It was not a bright place, suggestive of liveliness or gayety, but it was decorously inviting—­a place in which one could work with comfort and satisfaction.

“Let me see you at your desk,” said the father, smiling again.  “I have looked forward to seeing you there, just as you will look forward to seeing your son there.”

Bonbright sat down, wondering if his father had felt oppressed as he felt oppressed at this moment.  He had a feeling of stepping from one existence into another, almost of stepping from one body, one identity, to another.  When he sat at that desk he would be taking up, not his own career, but the career of the entity who had occupied this office through generations, and would occupy it in perpetual succession.  Vaguely he began to miss something.  The sensation was like that of one who has long worn a ring on his finger, but omits to put it on one morning.  For that person there is a vague sense of something missing throughout the day.  Bonbright did not know what he felt the lack of—­it was his identity.

“For the next month or so,” said his father, “about all you can hope to do is to become acquainted with the plant and with our methods.  Rangar will always be at your disposal to explain or to give you desired information.  I think it would be well if he were to conduct you through the plant.  It will give you a basis to work from.”

“The plant is still growing, I see,” said Bonbright.  “It seems as if a new building were being put up every time I come home.”

“Yes, growing past the prophecy of any of our predecessors,” said his father.  He paused.  “I am not certain,” he said, as one who asks a question of his inner self, “but I would have preferred a slower, more conservative growth.”

“The automobile has done it, of course.”

“Axles,” said his father, with a hint of distaste.  “The manufacturing of rear axles has overshadowed everything else.  We retain as much of the old business—­the manufacturing of machinery—­as ever.  Indeed, that branch has shown a healthy growth.  But axles!  A mushroom that has overgrown us in a night.”

It was apparent that Bonbright Foote VI did not approve of axles, as it was a known fact that he frowned upon automobiles.  He would not own one of them.  They were too new, too blatant.  His stables were still stables.  His coachman had not been transmuted into a chauffeur.  When he drove it was in a carriage drawn by horses—­as his ancestors had driven.