arts rendered quite as helpless
by the fall as those of a human organism subject to the constitutional
weaknesses of the flesh.

It was also John Wingfield, Sr.'s boast to himself that he had never been
beaten, which average mortals with the temerity to say "Nonsense!"--that
most equilibratory of words--might have diagnosed as a bad case of
self-esteem finding a way to forget the resented incidental reverses of
success. Yet, even average mortals noted when John Wingfield, Sr.
arrived late at the store the morning after Jack's departure for the West
that he had not slept well. His haggardness suggested that for once the
pushbutton to the switch of oblivion had failed him. The smile of
satisfied power was lacking. In the words of the elevator boy,
impersonal observer and swinger of doors, "I never seen the old man like
that before!"

But the upward flight through the streets of his city, if it did not
bring back the smile, brought back the old pride of ownership and
domination. He still had a kingdom; he was still king. Resentment rose
against the cause of the miserable twelve hours which had thrown the
machinery of his being out of order. He passed the word to himself that
he should sleep to-night and that from this moment, henceforth things
would be the same as they had been before Jack came home. Yes, there was
just one reality for him. It was enthroned in his office. This morning
was to be like any other business morning; like thousands of mornings to
come in the many years of activity that stretched ahead of him.

"A little late," he said, explaining his tardiness to his secretary; a
superfluity of words in which he would not ordinarily have indulged. "I
had some things to attend to on the outside."

With customary quiet attentiveness, Mortimer went through the mail with
his employer, who was frequently reassuring himself that his mind was as
clear, his answers as sure, and his interest as concentrated as usual.
This task finished, Mortimer, with his bundle of letters and notes in
hand, instead of going out of the room when he had passed around the
desk, turned and faced the man whom he had served for thirty years.

"Mr. Wingfield--"

"Well, Peter?"

John Wingfield, Sr. looked up sharply, struck by Mortimer's tone, which
seemed to come from another man. In Mortimer's eye was a placid,
confident light and his stoop was less marked.

"Mr. Wingfield, I am getting on in years, now," he said, "and I have
conclud