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The dinner at the Hitchcocks' was very simple. Parker had gone out "to
enjoy his success in not getting to Cuba," as Colonel Hitchcock expressed
it grimly. The old merchant's manner toward the doctor was cordial, but
constrained. At times during the dinner Sommers found Colonel Hitchcock's
eyes resting upon him, as if he were trying to understand him. Sommers was
conscious of the fact that Lindsay had probably done his best to paint his
character in an unflattering light; and though he knew that the old
colonel's shrewdness and kindliness would not permit him to accept bitter
gossip at its face value, yet there must have been enough in his career to
lead to speculation. While they were smoking, Colonel Hitchcock remarked:
"So you're back in Chicago. Do you think you'll stay?"
Sommers described the offer Dr. Knowles had made.
"I used to see Knowles,--a West Side man,--not very able as a money-getter,
I guess, but a good fellow," Colonel Hitchcock emitted meditatively.
"He has a very commonplace practice," Sommers replied. "An old-fashioned
kind of practice."
"Do you think you'll like Chicago any better?" Colonel Hitchcock asked
bluntly.
"I haven't thought much about that," the doctor admitted, uncomfortably. He
felt that the kind old merchant had lost whatever interest he might have
had in him. Any man who played ducks and drakes with his chances in life
was not to be depended upon, according to Colonel Hitchcock's philosophy.
And a man who could not be depended upon to do the rational thing was more
or less dangerous. It was easier for him to understand Parker's defects
than Sommers's wilfulness. They were both lamentable eccentricities.
"Chicago isn't what it was," the old man resumed reminiscently. "It's too
big, and there is too much speculation. A man is rich to-day and poor
to-morrow. That sort of thing used to be confined to the Board of Trade,
but now it's everywhere, in legitimate business. People don't seem to be
willing to work hard for success." He relapsed into silence, and shortly
after went upstairs, saying as he excused himself,--"Hope we shall see you
again, Dr. Sommers."
When Colonel Hitchcock had left the room, Miss Hitchcock said, as if to
remove the sting of her father's indifference:
"Uncle Brome's transactions worry papa,--for a time papa was deeply
involved in one of his schemes,--and he worries over Parker, too. He
doesn't like to think of--what will happen when he is dead. Parker will
have a good deal of money, more than he will know what to do with. It's
sad, don't you think so? To be ending one's life with a feeling that you
have failed to make permanent your ideals, to leave things stable in your
family at least?"
Instead of replying Sommers left his chair and walked aimlessly about the
room. At last he came back to the large table near which Miss Hitchcock was
seated.
"You know why I came to-night," he began nervously.
Miss Hitchcock put down the book she held in her hands and turned her face
to him.
"Will you help me--to live?" he said bluntly.
She rose from her seat, and, with a slight smile of irony, replied,
"Can I?"
"The past,--" Sommers stammered. "You know it all better than any one
else."
"I would not have it different, not one thing changed," she protested with
warmth. "What I cannot understand in it, I will believe was best for you
and for me."
"And the lack of success, the failure?" Sommers questioned eagerly; a touch
of fear in his voice. "I am asking much and giving very little."
"You understand so badly!" The smile this time was sad. "I shall never know
that it is failure."
Read next: PART II#CHAPTER XIV
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