That's all." He opened the door to the library and entered with a hope that his father would not be facing him, but he found that John Woodbury was not even reading.

He sat by the big fire-place smoking a pipe which he now removed slowly from his teeth.
"Hello, Anthony." "Good-evening, sir." He rose to shake hands with his son: they might have been friends meeting after a separation so long that they were compelled to be formal, and as Anthony turned to lay down his hat and coat he knew that the keen grey eyes studied him carefully from head to foot.
"Take this chair." "Why, sir, wouldn't dream of disturbing you." "Not a bit.

I want you to try it; just a trifle too narrow for me." John Woodbury rose and gestured his son to the chair he had been occupying.

Anthony hesitated, but then, like one who obeys first and thinks afterward, seated himself as directed.
"Mighty comfortable, sir." The big man stood with his hands clasped behind him, peering down under shaggy, iron-grey brows.
"I thought it would be.

I designed it myself for you and I had a pretty bad time getting it made." He stepped to one side.
"Hits you pretty well under the knees, doesn't it?
Yes, it's deeper than most." "A perfect fit, father, and mighty thoughtful of you." "H-m," rumbled John Woodbury, and looked about like one who has forgotten something.