Mr. Caruthers was looking at him with his lips pressed closely together, and his eyebrows drawn into the shape of the letter V. He leaned forward, and looked at Van Bibber intently.

“What is all this about?” he asked.  “Did you come here, Mr. Van Bibber, simply to tell me this?  What have you to do with it?  What have I to do with it?  Why did you come?”

“Because of the child.”

“What child?”

“Your child.” said Van Bibber.

Young Van Bibber was quite prepared for an outbreak of some sort, and mentally braced himself to receive it.  He rapidly assured himself that this man had every reason to be angry, and that he, if he meant to accomplish anything, had every reason to be considerate and patient.  So he faced Mr. Caruthers with shoulders squared, as though it were a physical shock he had to stand against, and in consequence he was quite unprepared for what followed.  For Mr. Caruthers raised his face without a trace of feeling in it, and, with his eyes still fixed on the glass in his hand, set it carefully down on the mantel beside him, and girded himself about with the rope of his robe.  When he spoke, it was in a tone of quiet politeness.

“Mr. Van Bibber,” he began, “you are a very brave young man.  You have dared to say to me what those who are my best friends—­what even my own family would not care to say.  They are afraid it might hurt me, I suppose.  They have some absurd regard for my feelings; they hesitate to touch upon a subject which in no way concerns them, and which they know must be very painful to me.  But you have the courage of your convictions; you have no compunctions about tearing open old wounds; and you come here, unasked and uninvited, to let me know what you think of my conduct, to let me understand that it does not agree with your own ideas of what I ought to do, and to tell me how I, who am old enough to be your father, should behave.  You have rushed in where angels fear to tread, Mr. Van Bibber, to show me the error of my ways.  I suppose I ought to thank you for it; but I have always said that it is not the wicked people who are to be feared in this world, or who do the most harm.  We know them; we can prepare for them, and checkmate them.  It is the well-meaning fool who makes all the trouble.  For no one knows him until he discloses himself, and the mischief is done before he can be stopped.  I think, if you will allow me to say so, that you have demonstrated my theory pretty thoroughly and have done about as much needless harm for one evening as you can possibly wish.  And so, if you will excuse me,” he continued, sternly, and moving from his place, “I will ask to say good-night, and will request of you that you grow older and wiser and much more considerate before you come to see me again.”