wrestling where he had left it off.

He began to patch together his shattered ideal of Isaac Ford, and
for cement he used a cunning and subtle logic. It was of the sort
that is compounded in the brain laboratories of egotists, and it
worked. It was incontrovertible that his father had been made of
finer clay than those about him; but still, old Isaac had been only
in the process of becoming, while he, Percival Ford, had become. As
proof of it, he rehabilitated his father and at the same time
exalted himself. His lean little ego waxed to colossal proportions.
He was great enough to forgive. He glowed at the thought of it.
Isaac Ford had been great, but he was greater, for he could forgive
Isaac Ford and even restore him to the holy place in his memory,
though the place was not quite so holy as it had been. Also, he
applauded Isaac Ford for having ignored the outcome of his one step
aside. Very well, he, too, would ignore it.

The dance was breaking up. The orchestra had finished "Aloha Oe"
and was preparing to go home. Percival Ford clapped his hands for
the Japanese servant.

"You tell that man I want to see him," he said, pointing out Joe
Garland. "Tell him to come here, now."

Joe Garland approached and halted respectfully several paces away,
nervously fingering the guitar which he still carried. The other
did not ask him to sit down.

"You are my brother," he said.