It was past nine o'clock when his car stopped before the house and, going
at once to his room, he found Sue sitting before his fire, her arms thrown
above her head and her eyes staring at the burning coals.
As Sam stood in the doorway looking at her a wave of resentment swept over
him.
"The old coward," he thought, "he has brought our fight here to her."
Hanging up his coat he filled his pipe and drawing up a chair sat beside
her. For five minutes Sue sat staring into the fire. When she spoke there
was a touch of hardness in her voice.
"When everything is said, Sam, you do owe a lot to father," she observed,
refusing to look at him.
Sam said nothing and she went on.
"Not that I think we made you, father and I. You are not the kind of man
that people make or unmake. But, Sam, Sam, think what you are doing. He
has always been a fool in your hands. He used to come home here when you
were new with the company and talk of what he was doing. He had a whole
new set of ideas and phrases; all that about waste and efficiency and
orderly working toward a definite end. It did not fool me. I knew the
ideas, and even the phrases he used to express them, were not his and I
was not long finding out they were yours, that it was simply you
expressing yourself through him.
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