“It’s a hard place to put us.  We’re meddling.  It doesn’t seem the right thing to come between mother and son.”

“You’re not,” said Hilda.  “Mrs. Foote’s snobbishness came between them.”

“Hilda!”

“That’s just what it is.  Ruth is just as nice as she is or anybody else.  She ought to be glad she’s getting a daughter like Ruth.  You’d be. ...And we can’t sit by and see Bon and his wife starve, can we?  We can’t fold our hands and let Mrs. Foote make Ruth unhappy.  It’s cruel, that’s what it is, and nothing else.  When Ruth is Bon’s wife she has the right to be treated as his wife should be.  Mrs. Foote has no business trying to humiliate her and Bon—­and she sha’n’t.”

“I suppose you’re right, dear.  I know you’re right. ...  But I’m thinking how I’d feel if it were you.”

“You’d never feel like Mrs. Foote, mother.  If I made up my mind to marry a man out of dad’s office—­no matter what his job was, if he was all right himself—­you wouldn’t throw me out of the house and set out to make him and me as unhappy as you could.  You aren’t a snob.”

“No,” said Mrs. Lightener, “I shouldn’t.”

Malcolm Lightener, interrupted.  “Now you’ve both had your say,” he said, “and you seem to have decided the thing between you.  I felt kind of that way, myself, but I wanted to know about you folks.  What you say goes. ...Now clear out; I want to talk business to Bonbright.”

Hilda gave Bonbright her hand again.  “I’m glad,” she said, simply.  “I know you’ll be very happy.”

“And I’ll do what I can, boy,” said Mrs. Lightener

Bonbright was moved as he had never been moved before by kindliness and womanliness.  “Thank you. ...  Thank you,” he said, tremulously.  “I—­you don’t know what this means to me.  You’ve—­you’ve put a new face on the whole future. ...”

“Clear out,” said Malcolm Lightener.

Hilda made a little grimace at him in token that she flouted his authority, and she and her mother said good night and retired from the room.

“Now,” said Malcolm Lightener.

Bonbright waited.

“I’m going to give you a job, but it won’t be any private-office job.  I don’t know what you’re good for.  Probably not much.  Don’t get it into your head I’m handing a snap to you, because I’m not.  If you’re not worth what I pay you you’ll get fired.  Understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“If you stick you’ll learn something.  Not the kind of rubbish you’ve been sopping up in your own place.  I run a business, not a museum of antiquity.  You’ll have to work.  Think you can?”

“I’ve wanted to.  They wouldn’t let me.”

“Um!...You’ll get dirt on your hands. ...Most likely you’ll be running Bonbright Foote, Incorporated, one of these days.  This thing won’t last.  Your father’ll have to come around. ...I only hope he lets you stay with me long enough to teach you some business sense and something about running a plant.  I’ll pay you enough to support you and this girl of yours—­but you’ll earn it.  When you earn more you’ll get it...Sounds reasonable.”