a thousand each for portraits of Carl and Friedrich
Gumble; that makes five thousand. Then I had three thousand for the
music-room I did for Mrs. Ellis; and Dinklespiel Brothers, who handle my
pictures, have sold every one I sent; which gives me twelve thousand so
far."

"I am perfectly astonished," murmured his father.

Duane laughed. "Oh, I know very well that sheer merit had nothing much
to do with it. The people who gave me orders are all your friends. They
did it as they might have sent in wedding presents; I am your son; I
come back from Paris; it's up to them to do something. They've done
it--those who ever will, I expect--and from now on it will be
different."

"They've given you a start," said his father.

"They certainly have done that. Many a brilliant young fellow, with more
ability than I, eats out his heart unrecognised, sterilised for lack of
what came to me because of your influence."

"It is well to look at it in that way for the present," said his father.
He sat silent for a while, staring through the dusk at the lighted
windows of houses in the rear. Then:

"I have meant to say, Duane, that I--we"--he found a little difficulty
in choosing his words--"that the Trust Company's officers feel that, for
the present, it is best for them to reconsider their offer that you
should undertake the mural decoration of the new building."

"Oh," said Duane, "I'm sorry!--but it's all right, father."

"I told them you'd take it without offence. I told them that I'd tell
you the reason we do not feel quite ready to incur, at this moment, any
additional expenses."

"Everybody is economising," said Duane cheerfully, "so I understand. No
doubt--later----"

"No doubt," said his father gravely.

The son's attitude was careless, untroubled; he dropped one long leg
over the other knee, and idly examining his cigar, cast one swift level
look at the older man:

"Father?"

"Yes, my son."

"I--it just occurred to me that if you happen to have any temporary use
for what you very generously set aside for me, don't stand on ceremony."

There ensued a long silence. It was his bedtime when Colonel Mallett
stirred in his holland-covered armchair and stood up.

"Thank you, my son," he said simply; they shook hands and separated; the
father to sleep, if he could; the son to go out into the summer night,
walk to his nearest club, and write his daily letter to the woman he
loved:

"Dear, it is not at all bad in