"But all people who go to church are not good," Dr. Lavendar said
dryly,
"I am afraid she lets Sam talk poetry to her," Sam's father broke out.
"Stuff! absolute stuff! His mother sometimes tells me of it. Why," he
ended piteously, "half the time I can't understand what it's about;
it's just bosh!"
"What you don't understand generally _is_ bosh, isn't it, Sam?"
said Dr. Lavendar thoughtfully.
"I am a man of plain common sense, sir; I don't pretend to anything
but common sense."
"I know you don't, Samuel, I know you don't," Dr. Lavendar said sadly;
and the banker, mollified, accepted the apology.
"On top of everything else, he's been writing a drama. He told his
mother so. Writing a drama, instead of writing up his ledgers!"
"Of course, he ought not to neglect his work," Dr. Lavendar agreed;
"but play-writing isn't one of the seven deadly sins,"
"It is distasteful to me!" Sam senior said hotly; "most distasteful. I
told his mother to tell him so, but he goes on writing--so she says."
He sighed, and got up to put on his coat. "Well; I must go home. I
suppose he has been inflicting himself upon Mrs. Richie this evening.
If he stays late, I shall feel it my duty to speak plainly to him."
Dr. Lavendar gave him a hand with his coat. "Gently does it, Samuel,
gently does it!"
His senior warden shook his head. The sense of paternal helplessness,
felt more or less by all fathers of sons, was heavy upon him.
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