VII
FATHER AND SON
The house seemed very quiet, though steadily, from a distant upper room,
came the sound of a violin. For more than an hour, Allison had worked
continuously at one difficult phrase. Colonel Kent smiled whimsically as
he sat in the library, thinking that, by this time, he could almost play
it himself.
Looking back over the thirty years, he could see where he had made
mistakes in moulding the human clay entrusted to his care, yet, in the
end, the mistakes had not mattered. Back in the beginning, he had
formulated certain cherished ideals for his son, and had worked steadily
toward them, unmindful of occasional difficulties and even failures.
Against his own judgment, he had yielded to Francesca in the choice of
the boy's career. "Look at his hands," she had said. "You couldn't put
hands like his at work in an office. If he isn't meant for music, we'll
find it out soon enough."
But Allison had gone on, happily, along the chosen path, with never a
question or doubt of his ultimate success. Just now, the Colonel was
deeply grateful to Francesca, for the years abroad had been pleasant
ones, and would have been wholly impossible had Allison been working in
an office.
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