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Julie bravely ventured a remark. “You remember Harry Baird, Stacey?” she said, with a little laugh. “He’s a contractor, you know. Well, he says that nearly all his men drive up to work in their own Fords.”

Stacey laughed, too, though he kept his eyes on his father’s face. Mr. Carroll seemed to have relapsed into his former state of indignant meditation.

“Now I ask you,” Julie concluded, “what more do they want?”

“Why,” Stacey observed lightly, “they probably want to drive up in Packards. You see, if you’ve had power—that is to say, if you’ve had money—for a long time, you don’t much care whether you ride around in a Packard or a Ford—”

“Oh, I care!” Julie broke in. “A Ford is awfully jolty.”

“Yes, you care because one is more comfortable. What I mean to say is that a Packard isn’t to you a belligerent symbol that you’re as good as anybody else. I dare say it is to the laborer.”

But Mr. Carroll had emerged from his thoughts and was looking at Stacey keenly. “Son,” he said soberly, “you’ve done your duty heroically. You’ve gone through a tremendous ordeal and you’ve gone through it without flinching. Don’t go back on what’s right now, will you? Keep on going straight. Don’t let yourself get infected with Bolshevism. You’re not, are you?”