"Your mother," said Bartholomew Berg slowly, "is one woman in a
million. Don't ever forget that. They don't turn out models like
Emma McChesney more than once every blue moon."
Jock got to his feet slowly. He felt heavy, old. "I suppose," he
began, "that this ends my--my advertising career."
"Ends it!" The Old Man stood up and put a heavy hand on the boy's
shoulder. "It only begins it. Unless you want to lie down and
quit. Do you?"
"Quit!" cried Jock McChesney. "Quit! Not on your white space!"
"Good!" said Bartholomew Berg, and took Jock McChesney's hand in
his own great friendly grasp.
An instinct as strong as that which had made him blatant in his
hour of triumph now caused him to avoid, in his hour of defeat,
the women-folk before whom he would fain be a hero. He avoided
Grace Galt all that long, dreary afternoon. He thought wildly of
staying down-town for the evening, of putting off the meeting with
his mother, of avoiding the dreaded explanations, excuses,
confessions.
But when he let himself into the flat at five-thirty the place was
very quiet, except for Annie, humming in a sort of nasal singsong
of content in the kitchen.
He flicked on the light in the living-room.
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