“Yes... yes...” he said, slowly, with satisfaction, “it is good to have you in the business, son.  It’s a satisfaction to see you sitting there. ...  Now we must look about to find a suitable girl for you to marry.  We must begin to think about Bonbright Foote VIII.”  There was no smile as he said this; the observation was made in sober earnest.  Bonbright saw that, just as his ancestors looked to him to carry on the business, so they looked to him to produce with all convenient dispatch a male successor to himself.  It was, so to speak, an important feature of his job.

“I’ll send in Rangar,” said his father, not waiting for Bonbright to reply to the last suggestion, and walked with long-legged dignity out of the room.

Bonbright rested his chin on his palm and stared gloomily at the wall.  He felt bound and helpless; he saw himself surrounded by firm and dignified shades of departed Bonbright Footes whose collective wills compelled him to this or prohibited that course of action.

Adventure, chance, were eliminated from his life.  He was to be no errant musician, improvising according to his mood; the score he was to play was before him, and he must play it note for note, paying strict attention to rests, keys, andantes, fortissimos, pianissimos.  He had been born to this, had been made conscious of his destiny from babyhood, but never had he comprehended it as he did on this day of his investiture.

Even the selection and courting of a mate, that greatest of all adventures (to the young), was made humdrum.  Doubtless his mother already had selected the girl, and presently would marry him to her. ...  Somehow this was the one phase of the situation that galled him most.

“I’ll see about that,” he muttered, rebelliously, “I’ll see about that.”

Not that marriage was of importance to him yet, except as a thing to be avoided until some dim future.  Women had not assumed consequence to him; his relations with them had been scant surface relations.  They were creatures who did or did not please the eye, who did or did not dance well, who did or did not amuse one.  That was all.  He was only twenty-three.

Rangar, his father’s secretary, and the man who stood as shield between Bonbright Foote VI and unpleasant contacts with his business and the world’s business, entered.  Rangar was a capable man whose place as secretary to the head of the business did not measure his importance in the organization.  Another man of his abilities and opportunity and position would have carried the title of general manager or vice president—­something respect-carrying.  As for Rangar, he was content.  He drew the salary that would have accompanied those other titles, possessed in an indirect sort of way the authority, and yet managed to remain disentangled from the responsibilities.  Had he suddenly vanished the elder Foote would have been left suspended in rarefied heights between heaven and his business, lacking direct contact with the mills and machine shops and foundries; yet, doubtless, would have been unable to realize that the loss of Rangar had left him so.  Rangar was a competent, efficient man, if peculiar in his ambitions.