didn't come."

"No. I--"

"Why not?"

Here was the issue joined. Here, if ever, was the opportunity to assert
my independence a la Jed Dean and Alvin Baker. But to assert it now,
after he had done the unexpected, after the mountain had come to
Mahomet, seemed caddish and ridiculous. So I temporized, weakly.

"I didn't read your letter until about noon," I said.

"I see. Well, I waited until two o'clock and then I decided to hunt you
up. I called at your house. The woman there said you were down here.
Your mother?"

"No." My answer was prompt and sharp enough this time. It was natural,
perhaps, that he should presume Dorinda to be my mother, but I did not
like it.

He paid absolutely no attention to the tone of my reply or its curtness.
He did not refer to Dorinda again. She might have been my wife or my
great-aunt for all he cared.

"This your workshop?" he asked, abruptly. Then, nodding toward the
dismembered engine, "What are you? a boat builder?"

"No, not exactly."