"The whole damn lot of you make me sick," he said. "So does this club."

A servant held his rain-coat and handed him his hat; he shook his bent
shoulders, stifled a cough, and went out into the rain.

In his own home his little old father, carefully be-wigged, painted,
cleaned and dressed, came trotting into the lamp-lit living-room fresh
from the ministrations of his valet.

"There you are, Jack!--te-he! Oh, yes, there you are, you young
dog!--all a-drip with rain for the love o' the ladies, eh, Jack?
Te-he--one's been here to see you--a little white doll in chinchillas,
and scared to death at my civilities--as though she knew the
Dysarts--te-he! Oh, yes, the Dysarts, Jack. But it was monstrous
imprudent, my son--and a good thing that your wife remains at Lenox so
late this season--te-he! A lucky thing, you young dog! And what the
devil do you mean by it--eh? What d'ye mean, I say!"

Leering, peering, his painted lips pursed up, the little old man seated
himself, gazing with dim, restless eyes at the shadowy blur which
represented to him his handsome son--a Dysart all through, elegant,
debonair, resistless, and, married or single, fatal to feminine peace of
mind. Generations ago Dysarts had been shot very conventionally at ten
paces owing to this same debonair resistlessness; Dysarts had slipped
into and out of all sorts of unsavoury messes on account of this fatal
family failing; some had been neatly winged, some thrust through; some,
in a more sordid age, permitted counsel of ability to explain to a jury
how guiltless a careless gentleman could be under the most unfortunate
and extenuating appearances.

The son stood in his wet clothes, haggard, lined, ghastly in contrast to
the startling red of his lips, looking at his smirking father: then he
leaned over and touched a bell.

"Who was it who called on Mrs. Dysart?" he asked, as a servant appeared.

"Miss Quest, sir," said the man, accepting the cue with stolid
philosophy.

"Did Miss Quest leave any message?"

"Yes, sir: Miss Quest desired _Mrs._ Dysart to telephone her on _Mrs._
Dysart's return from--the country, sir--it being a matter of very great
importance."

"Thank you."

"Thank _you_, sir."

The servant withdrew; the son stood gazing into the hallway. Behind him
his father mumbled and muttered and chuckled to himself in his
easy-chair by the fire!

"Te-he! They are all alike, the Dysarts--oh, yes, all alike! And now
it's that young dog--Jack!