"Yes, that's it--what they two would do. There's no genius in it,
though my father comes as near being a genius as any man alive. But
there's a screw loose somewhere. . . . It wasn't good enough for me.
It didn't give me a chance--in things that are of the mind, the spirit--
my particular gifts, whatever they are. They would have chafed against
that life."
"In other words, you're a genius, which your father isn't," the girl said
almost sarcastically.
A disturbed look came into Carnac's eyes. "I'd have liked my father to
be a genius. Then we'd have hit it off together. I don't ever feel the
things he does are the things I want to do; or the things he says are
those I'd like to say. He's a strange man. He lives alone. He never
was really near Fabian or me. We were his sons, but though Fabian is a
little bit like him in appearance, I'm not, and never was. I always feel
that--" He paused, and she took up the tale:
"That he wasn't the father you'd have made for yourself, eh!"
"I suppose that's it. Conceit, ain't it? Perhaps the facts are, I'm one
of the most useless people that ever wore a coat. Perhaps the things I
do aren't going to live beyond me."
"It seems as though your father's business is going to live after him,
doesn't it?" the girl asked mockingly.
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