But the question was, what spring? And that, unfortunately, was what
old Rickman never could lay his finger on.
Still it went, that machine of his, apparently of its own accord. It
went mysteriously, capriciously, but fairly satisfactorily on the
whole. And Isaac was wise; his very respect for the thing that had
cost him so much prevented him from tampering with it.
It was in accordance with this policy of caution that they lived
apart. Isaac loved the suburbs; Keith loved the town, and it was as
well for one of them to live in it, near to their place of business.
Isaac had married again, and though he was proud of his boy and fond
of him, he contrived to be completely happy without him. He loved his
little detached villa residence at Ilford in Essex, with its little
flower-garden showing from the high road, its little stable for the
pony and little paddock for the cow. He loved his large smooth-faced
second wife, with her large balance at the bank and still larger
credit in the Wesleyan circle they lived and moved in. He loved that
Wesleyan circle, the comfortable, safe community that knew only the
best, the Sunday best, of him. And Keith loved none of these things.
By the education he had got and which he, Isaac, had given him, by the
"religion" he hadn't got, and which nothing would induce him to take,
by the obscure barriers of individuality and temperament, the son was
separated from the father.
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