“Curves and color don’t always do it, Mr. Foote, I’ve observed.  I’ve known scrawny ones, without a thing to stir up the imagination, that had ten boys running after them to one running after the kind they have pictures of on calendars. ...  I don’t know if it’s brains, or what, but they’ve got something that attracts.”

“Hum! ...  Can’t say I’ve had much experience.  Probably you’re right.  Anyhow, we’re faced by something definite in the way of a condition. ...  If the thing is merely a liaison—­we can break it up, I imagine, without difficulty.  If my son is so blind to right and wrong, and to his position, as to want to marry the girl, we’ll have to resort promptly to effective measures.”

“Promptly,” said Rangar.  “And quietly, Mr. Foote.  If she got an idea there was trouble brewing, she might off with him and get married before we could wink.”

“Heavens! ...  An anarchistic boarding-house girl for a daughter-in-law!  We’d be a proud family, Rangar.”

“Yes, sir.  I understand you leave it with me?”

“I leave it with you to keep an eye on Bonbright.  Consult with me before acting.  My son is in a strange humor.  He’ll take some handling, I’m afraid, before we bring him to see things as my son ought to see them.  But I’ll bring him there, Rangar.  I should be doing my duty very indifferently, indeed, if I did not.  He’s resentful.  He wants to display a thing he calls his individuality—­as if our family had use for such things.  We’re Footes, and I rather fancy the world knows what that means. ...  My son shall be a Foote, Rangar.  That’s all. ...  Stay a moment, though.  Hereafter bear in mind I do not care to be troubled with squalid details.  If things have to be done, do them. ...  If babies must be hungry—­why, I suppose it is a condition that must exist from time to time.  The fault of their fathers. ...  However, I do not care to hear about them.  I am engaged on an important literary work, as you know, and such things tend to distract me.”

“Naturally, sir,” said Rangar.

“But you will on no account relax your firmness with these strikers.  They must be shown.”

“They’re being shown,” said Rangar, grimly, and walked out of the office.  In the corridor his face, which had been expressionless or obsequious when he saw the need, changed swiftly.  His look was that of a man thinking of an enemy.  There was malice, vindictiveness, hatred in that look, and it expressed with exactness his sentiments toward young Bonbright Foote. ...  It did not express all of them, for, lurking in the background, unseen, was a deep contempt.  Rangar despised Bonbright as a nincompoop, as he expressed it privately.

“If I didn’t think,” he said, “I’d get all the satisfaction I need by leaving him to his father, I’d take a hand myself.  But the Foote spooks will give it to him better than I could. ...  I can’t wish him any worse luck than to be left to them.”  He chuckled and felt of his disarranged tie.