“No, sir.”

“Then come up with me and help me change.  Quick!”

He turned and fled noiselessly up the great stairs, with Peters panting behind.  Anthony’s overcoat was off before he had fairly entered his room and his coat and vest flopped through the air as Peters shut the door.  Whatever the old servant lacked in agility he made up in certain knowledge; as he laid out a fresh tuxedo, Anthony changed with the speed of one pursued.  The conversation was spasmodic to a degree.

“Where’s father?  Waiting in the library?”

“Yes.  Reading, sir.”

“Had a mix-up—­bully time, though—­damn this collar!  Peters, I wish you’d been there—­where’s those trousers?  Rub some of the crease out of ’em—­they must look a little worn.”

He stood at last completely dressed while Peters looked on with a shining eye and a smile which in a younger man would have suggested many things.

“How is it?  Will I pass father this way?”

“I hope so, sir.”

“But you don’t think so?”

“It’s hard to deceive him.”

“Confound it!  Don’t I know?  Well, here’s for a try.  Soft-foot it down stairs.  I’ll go after you and bang the door.  Then you say good-evening in a loud voice and I’ll go into the library.  How’s that?”

“Very good—­your coat over your arm—­so!  Just ruffle your hair a bit, sir—­now you should do very nicely.”

At the door:  “Go first, Peters—­first, man, and hurry, but watch those big feet of yours.  If you make a noise on the stairs I’m done with you.”

The noiselessness of the descending feet was safe enough, but not so safe was the chuckling of Peters for, though he fought against the threatening explosion, it rumbled like the roll of approaching thunder.  In the hall below, Anthony opened and slammed the door.

“Good-evening, Mr. Anthony,” said Peters loudly, too loudly.

“Evening, Peters.  Where’s father?”

“In the library, sir.  Shall I take your coat?”

“I’ll carry it up to my room when I go.  That’s all.”

He opened the door to the library and entered with a hope that his father would not be facing him, but he found that John Woodbury was not even reading.  He sat by the big fire-place smoking a pipe which he now removed slowly from his teeth.

“Hello, Anthony.”

“Good-evening, sir.”

He rose to shake hands with his son:  they might have been friends meeting after a separation so long that they were compelled to be formal, and as Anthony turned to lay down his hat and coat he knew that the keen grey eyes studied him carefully from head to foot.

“Take this chair.”

“Why, sir, wouldn’t dream of disturbing you.”

“Not a bit.  I want you to try it; just a trifle too narrow for me.”

John Woodbury rose and gestured his son to the chair he had been occupying.  Anthony hesitated, but then, like one who obeys first and thinks afterward, seated himself as directed.