Against his dull walls, on which the street light
cast queer patterns through an open window, he could see, through drowsy
eyes, Sophie half-buried in a great chair, listening attentively while
he and her father talked. Of course they had fallen into argument,
sometimes triangular, more often solely confined to himself and Carr.
Thompson was glad that the Grant Street orators had driven him to the
city library that winter. A man needed all the weapons he could command
against that sharp-tongued old student who precipitated himself joyfully
into controversy.
But of course they did not spend three hours discussing abstract
theories. There was a good deal of the personal. Thompson had learned
that they were in San Francisco for the winter only. Their home was in
Vancouver. And Tommy Ashe was still in Vancouver, graduated from an
automobile salesman to an agency of his own, and doing well in the
venture. Tommy, Carr said, had the modern business instinct. He did not
specify what that meant. Carr did not dwell much on Tommy. He appeared
to be much more interested in Thompson's wanderings, his experiences,
the shifts he had been put to, how the world impressed him, viewed from
the angle of the ordinary man instead of the ministerial.
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