. Never mind--what
you've told me is the best tonic I could hope for."

He closed his eyes with a look of contentment and lay quiet, the
outline of his head sharp against the pillow. Roger leaned back in his
chair, well pleased with his father's reception of his report, and
realising more than ever before what his achievement meant to the old
man. Up till now he had been chiefly concerned with his own
satisfaction over a great personal triumph, the biggest thing he had
accomplished in his entire career. To begin with, hampered as he had
been by the two hard, conservative old men above him, Henry Seabrook
and his father, this represented the only time he had been allowed to
strike out a line for himself. Ever since he came down from the
University and went to work to "learn the business," he had violently
disagreed with certain details in the policy of the firm. Not that he
was not proud of Seabrook & Clifford. No factories were run on better
lines; there was nothing in their administration to hide up or
apologise for, while "Seacliff Fabrics" were of an excellence
recognised throughout England and the colonies. Only their designs
were old-fashioned, the honoured firm had not moved with the times, as
others and often less worthy competitors had done.

In Roger's opinion, the sign of this was their failure to capture the
American market. He had tried hard to convince the old partners of
this, but for several years his efforts had met with no success. In
the end he had on his own initiative sought out young artists of a
modern school of design in London and in Paris, wherever he could find
them, and from them had obtained a whole collection of new drawings for
printed cottons. Then, after a hard-fought campaign, he finally
secured a grudging consent to put his idea to the test and, armed with
his batch of Seacliff Fabrics brought up to date, he had set out four
months ago for the United States--with the happy result just related.

Well! They would have to believe in him now, those two stubborn old
men; they could no longer regard him as a hare-brained youngster full
of mad theories. He wished suddenly that his mother could know of his
good fortune. She, he was sure, would have had confidence in him from
the start. He raised his eyes to the mantelpiece, where there was a
photograph of her, taken in the dress of eighteen years back. The face
was pleasing without being beautiful, the eyes seemed to look at h