“You see,” his mother said, bitingly, “it lasted a whole day with you.”

“Mother!”

Bonbright turned to his father.  “I am going to marry Ruth.  That cannot be changed.  Nothing can alter it. ...  I am ready to come back to the office—­and be Bonbright Foote VII... and you can’t guess what that means.  But I’ll do it—­because it seems to be the thing I ought to do. ...  I’ll come back if—­and only if—­you and mother change your minds about Ruth. ...  She will be my wife as much as mother is your wife, and you must treat her so.  She must have your respect.  You must receive her as you would receive me... as you would have been glad to receive Hilda Lightener.  If you refuse—­I’m through with you.  I mean it. ...  You have demanded a promise of me.  Now you must give me your promise—­to act to Ruth as you should act toward my wife. ...  Unless you do the office and the family have seen the last of me.”  He did not speak with heat or in excitement, but very gravely, very determinedly.  His father saw the determination, and wavered.

“Georgia,” he said, again.

“No,” said Mrs. Foote.

“The Family—­the business.” said Mr. Foote, uncertainly.

“I’d see the business ended and the Family extinct before I would tolerate that girl. ...  If Bonbright marries her he does it knowing how I feel and how I shall act.  She shall never step a foot in this house while I live—­nor afterward, if I can prevent it.  Nor shall Bonbright.”

“Is that final, mother?...  Are you sure it is your final decision?”

“Absolutely,” she said, her voice cold as steel.

“Very well,” said Bonbright, and, turning, he walked steadily toward the door.

“Where are you going?” his father said, taking an anxious step after his son.

“I don’t know,” said Bonbright.  “But I’m not coming back.”

He passed through the door and disappeared, but his mother did not call after him, did not relent and follow her only son to bring him back.  Her face was set, her lips a thin, white line.

“Let him go,” she said.  “He’ll come back when he’s eaten enough husks.”

“He’s got to come back. ...  We’ve got to stop this marriage.  He’s our only son, Georgia—­he’s necessary to the Family.  His son is necessary.”

“And hers?” she asked, with bitter irony.

“Better hers than none,” said Mr. Foote.

“You would give in. ...  Oh, I know you would.  You haven’t a thought outside of Family.  I wasn’t born in your family, remember.  I married into it.  I have my own rights in this matter, and, Family or no Family, Bonbright, that girl shall never be received where I am received. ...  Never.”

Mr. Foote walked to the window and looked out.  He saw his son’s tall form pass down the walk and out into the street—­going he did not know where; to return he did not know when.  He felt an ache in his heart such as he had never felt before.  He felt a yearning after his son such as he had never known.  In that moment of loss he perceived that Bonbright was something more to him than Bonbright Foote VII—­he was flesh of his flesh and blood of his blood.  The stifled, cramped, almost eliminated human father that remained in him cried out after his son. ...