One thing was sure, the boy had never been told who his father was. That
Barouche knew. He had the useful gift of reading the minds of people in
their faces. From Carnac's face, from Carnac's mother's face, had come
to him the real story. He knew that Alma Grier had sinned only once and
with him. In the first days after that ill-starred month, he had gone to
her, only to be repelled as a woman can repel whose soul has been
shocked, whose self-respect has been shamed.

It had been as though she thrust out arms of infinite length to push him
away, such had been the storm of her remorse, such the revulsion against
herself and him. So they had fallen apart, and he had seen his boy grow
up independent, original, wilful, capable--a genius. He read the
newspaper reports of what had happened the day before with senses greatly
alive.

After all, politics was unlike everything else. It was a profession
recruited from all others. The making of laws was done by all kinds of
men. One of the wisest advisers in river-law he had ever known was a
priest; one of the best friends of the legislation of the medical
profession was a woman; one of the bravest Ministers who had ever
quarrelled with and conquered his colleagues had been an insurance agent;
one of the sanest authorities on maritime law had been a man with a
greater pride in his verses than in his practical capacity; and here was
Carnac, who had painted pictures and made statues, plunging into politics
with a policy as ingenious as his own, and as capable of logical
presentation. This boy, who was bone of his bone and flesh of his flesh,
meant to fight him. He threw back his head and laughed. His boy, his
son, meant to fight him, did he? Well, so be it! He got to his feet,
and walked up and down the room.