She was jealous of Clayton those days. Some times she found the
boy's eyes fixed on his father, with admiration and something more.
She was jealous of the things they had in common, of the days at
the mill, of the bits of discussion after dinner, when Clayton sat
back with his cigar, and Graham voiced, as new discoveries, things
about the work that Clayton had realized for years.
He always listened gravely, with no hint of patronage. But Natalie
would break in now and then, impatient of a conversation that
excluded her.
"Your father knows all these things, Graham," she said once. "You
talk as though you'd just discovered the mill, like Columbus
discovering America."
"Not at all," Clayton said, hastily. "He has a new viewpoint. I
am greatly interested. Go on, Graham."
But the boy's enthusiasm had died. He grew self-conscious,
apologetic. And Clayton felt a resentment that was close to despair.
The second of April fell on a Saturday. Congress, having ended the
session the fourth of March, had been hastily reconvened, and on
the evening of that day, Saturday, at half past eight, the President
went before the two Houses in joint session.
Pages:
359
360
361
362
363
364
365
366
367
368
369
370
371
372
373
374
375
376
377
378
379
380
381
382
383