tly.

"Are you going down-town?"

"No.... And, Duane, if you don't mind letting me have the house to
myself this morning----"

He hesitated, glancing from his son to the telephone.

"Of course not," said Duane heartily. "I'm off to the studio----"

"I don't mean to throw you out," murmured his father with a painful
attempt to smile, "but there's a stenographer coming from my office and
several--business acquaintances."

The young fellow rose, patted his father's shoulder lightly:

"What is really of any importance," he said, "is that you keep your
health and spirits. What I said last night covers my sentiments. If I
can do anything in the world for you, tell me."

His father took the outstretched hand, lifted his faded eyes with a
strange dumb look; and so they parted.

On Fifth Avenue and Fifty-ninth Street, Duane, swinging along at a good
pace, turned westward, and half-way to Sixth Avenue encountered Guy
Wilton going east, a packet under one arm, stick and hat in the other
hand, the summer wind blowing the thick curly hair from his temples.

"Ah," observed Wilton, "early bird and worm, I suppose? Don't try to
bolt me, Duane; I'm full of tough and undigested--er--problems, myself.
Besides, I'm fermenting. Did you ever silently ferment while listening
politely to a man you wanted to assault?"

Duane laughed, then his eye by accident, caught a superscription on the
packet of papers under Wilton's arm: Yo Espero! His glance reverted in a
flash to Wilton's face.

The latter said: "I want to write a book entitled 'Gentleman I Have
Kicked.' Of course I've only kicked 'em mentally; but my! what a list I
have!--all sorts, all nations--from certain domestic and predatory
statesmen to the cad who made his beautiful and sensitive mistress
notorious in a decadent novel!--all kinds, Duane, have I kicked mentally
I've just used my foot on another social favorite----"

"Dysart!" said Duane, inspired, and, turning painfully red, begged
Wilton's pardon.

"You've sure got a disconcerting way with you," admitted Wilton, very
much out of countenance.

"It was rotten bad taste in me----"

Wilton grinned with a wry face: "Nobody is standing much on ceremony
these days. Besides, I'm on to your trail, young man"--tapping the
bundle under his arm--"your eye happened to catch that superscription;
no doubt your father has talked to you; and you came to--a rather
embarrassing conclusion."

Duane's serious face fell:

"My