Thus he grew away from all other people, except his mother. To her he was drawn closer, particularly when her relationship with Paul grew strained. This had been especially obvious after the birth of Ned, the fifth baby; the father had had sharp words with Mary about it. "It was all right for Mother Barbour to have six; people had more children then. Two of them died, anyhow. It's different now." "But, Paul,----" The calloused injustice of it silenced her. He watched her averted face. "I see Mamie Charlton's getting divorced. Jack got tired of her and her eternal children. I saw her the other day.... She's getting old. Too many children responsible for it." She flinched dumbly before his brutality. He spoke savagely, through clenched teeth. "It's your fault. You ought to be more careful." Her womanhood rose in rebellion. "Any time you're tired of me, Paul,----" "It's easy to talk." He laughed abruptly. "And since the business is doing so well, there are always younger women,----" He did not finish--her look silenced him. With no woman to confide in, Mary turned to her son, rather than to the girls. His whole horizon was filled with love for her mellow brown-eyed beauty, and for the mothering mountain that came to stand for her in his fancies. On the walks with his father, Paul's mind was filled with thoughts of the planned development of the land for residential purposes, while Pelham was busied with fantasies of fairies and knightly escapades. Father and son were continually jarring over little things; the estrangement widened. "I think we'll continue the gap road as an avenue to the railroad tracks. Logan Avenue, we'll call it. Mr. Guild thinks that would be a good place." "Down Dwarfland?" The father was plainly irritated. "'Dwarfland' ... what poppycock! Why can't you get your head down to business, Pelham?" He would meekly smother his wandering imagination, and listen to long monologues about grading, restricted allotments, and similar boring topics. The father's sympathy went no further than to approve, in the boy, the things which the man himself liked. His son should naturally take to those things which the father cared for. Fishing trips to Pensacola or beyond Ship Island, which Pelham enjoyed more for the novelty of scenes and faces than for the tedious sport, called forth Paul's gusty admiration when the boy succeeded in holding to a game mackerel, or in a skillful handling of spade fish or mullet. The boy's undistinguished prowess in swimming and tennis, his fumbling success with a shotgun after bull-bats or meadow larks, were magnified in the father's eyes.