The talk had passed beyond the commonplace of the day's doings. They
were among the big things, the fateful thing--Life and Its Worth, Work
and Its Wages, Creative Industry and Its Product, Capital and Its Price,
Man and His Rights.

They were frank with each other. The war had done that for them. For
ever since the night when his eighteen-year-old boy had walked into his
den and said, "Father, I am eighteen," and stood looking into his eyes
and waiting for the word that came straight and unhesitating, "I know,
boy, you are my son and you must go, for I cannot," ever since that
night, which seemed now to belong to another age, these two had faced
each other as men. Now they were talking about the young man's life
work.

"Frankly, I don't like it, Dad," said the son.

"Easy to see that, Jack."

"I'm really sorry. I'm afraid anyone can see it. But somehow I can't put
much pep into it."

"Why?" asked the father, with curt abruptness.

"Why? Well, I hardly know. Somehow it hardly seems worth while. It is
not the grind of the office, though that is considerable. I could stick
that, but, after all, what's the use?"

"What would you rather do, Jack?" enquired his father patiently, as if
talking to a child. "You tried for the medical profession, you know,
and--"