down the room, softly, noiselessly.

"You talk sense," he said. "I care for that boy, but I care for my
life's work more. Day in, day out, night in, night out, I've slaved for
it, prayed for it, believed in it, and tried to make my wife and my boys
feel as I do about it, and none of them cares as I care. Look at Fabian
--over with the enemy, fighting his own father; look at Carnac, out in
the open, taking his own way." He paused.

"And your wife?" asked Tarboe almost furtively, because it seemed to him
that the old man was most unhappy in that particular field.

"She's been a good wife, but she don't care as I do for success and
money."

"Perhaps you never taught her," remarked Tarboe with silky irony.

"Taught her! What was there to teach? She saw me working; she knew the
life I had to live; she was lifted up with me. I was giving her
everything in me to give."

"You mean money and a big house and servants and comfort," said Tarboe
sardonically.

"Well, ain't that right?" snapped the other.

"Yes, it's all right, but it don't always bring you what you want. It's
right, but it's wrong too. Women want more than that, boss. Women want
to be loved--sky high."