Then, from a recess in his memory, there popped out the word “genteel.”  His father had characterized the Certina business as being, possibly, not sufficiently “genteel” for him.  He caught at the saving suggestion.  Doubtless that was the trouble.  It was the blatancy of the business, not any evil quality inherent in it, which had offended him.  Kindest and gentlest of men and best of fathers as Dr. Surtaine was, he was not a paragon of good taste; and his business naturally reflected his personality.  Even this was further than Hal had ever gone before in critical judgment.  But he seized upon the theory as a defense against further thought, and, having satisfied his self-questionings with this sop, he let his mind revert to his trip through the factory.  It paused on the correspondence room and its attractive forewoman.

“She seemed a practical little thing,” he reflected.  “I’ll talk to her again and get her point of view.”  And then he wondered, rather amusedly, how much of this self-suggestion arose from a desire for information, and how much was inspired by a memory of her haunting, hungry eyes.

On the following morning he kept away from the factory, lunched at the Huron Club with William Douglas, Elias M. Pierce, who had found time to be present, and several prominent citizens whom he thought quite dully similar to each other; and afterward walked to the Certina Building to keep an appointment with its official head.

“Been feeding with our representative citizens, eh?” his father greeted him.  “Good!  Meantime the Old Man grubbed along on a bowl of milk and a piece of apple pie, at a hurry-up lunch-joint.  Good working diet, for young or old.  Besides, it saves time.”

“Are you as busy as all that, Dad?”

“Pretty busy this morning, because I’ve had to save an hour for you out of this afternoon.  We’ll take it right now if you’re ready.”

“Quite ready, sir.”

“Hal, where’s Europe?”

“Europe?  In the usual place on the map, I suppose.”

“You didn’t bring it back with you, then?”

“Not a great deal of it.  They mightn’t have let it through the customs.”

Dr. Surtaine snapped a rubber band from a packet of papers lying on his desk.  “Considering that you seem to have bought it outright,” he said, twinkling, “I thought you might tell me what you intend doing with it.  There are the bills.”

“Have I gone too heavy, sir?” asked Hal.  “You’ve never limited me, and I supposed that the business—­”

“The business,” interrupted his father arrogantly, “could pay those bills three times over in any month.  That isn’t the point.  The point is that you’ve spent something more than forty-eight thousand dollars this last year.”

Hal whistled ruefully.  “Call it an even fifty,” he said.  “I’ve made a little, myself.”

“No!  Have you?  How’s that?”

“While I was in London I did a bit of writing; sketches of queer places and people and that sort of thing, and had pretty good luck selling ’em.  One fellow I know there even offered me a job paragraphing.  That’s like our editorial writing, you know.”