The son took one sharp survey of Marcus, and then slipped his right hand insinuatingly in that of his father, which hung over an arm of the easy chair.  Mr. Van Quintem turned his face farther away, but Marcus observed that his fingers closed upon the hand which lay within them.

“Are you quite well, my dear father?” asked the son, in a low, hollow voice, not meant to be overheard by the visitor.

“I am, thanks to God, and the doctor, and my niece,” said the father, stealing a side look at his son.

“And no thanks to me, I know that.  I feared, my dear father, after what had occurred, that you could not bear the sight of me.  Therefore I kept away from your bedside.”

“That is a lame excuse, Myndert,” replied the father.  He spoke in a voice intended to be audible to Marcus Wilkeson.

A gleam in the son’s sunken eyes, and a new pallor on his bloated cheeks, indicated his displeasure at the turn which this conversation was taking.  He withdrew his hand, and said, in a deep whisper: 

“I did not think you would quarrel with me, when I called to congratulate you on your recovery.”

Mr. Van Quintem wavered a moment.  Then, looking at the calm face of Marcus Wilkeson, as if to gather strength from it, he replied: 

“My son, such language is not respectful to your father.  You know, as God knows, that I have been too indulgent with you.”

The son coolly twirled the ends of his mustache—­which protruded from each side of his mouth like the antennae of a catfish—­and gazed impudently in his father’s face.  Then he turned about, and bestowed another scornful, analyzing look on the tranquil Marcus.

“That is a friend of mine, Myndert, and I have no secrets from him.  Mr. Wilkeson—­my son.”

Marcus politely rose, and offered his hand to the young man, who accepted it reluctantly.

“I have seen you before, I believe,” said he.  “Across the way, eh?”

“I dare say,” was the reply.  “I sometimes sit at the window, reading.”

Myndert then abruptly faced his fatherland Marcus resumed his chair.

“Since you have no secrets from this gentleman,” said the son, “allow me to ask if you could conveniently spare five hundred dollars this morning?”

The old gentleman hesitated; then reassured himself by an observation of Marcus Wilkeson’s face, and said: 

“No, my son; I can no longer encourage this extravagance.  Where is your last monthly allowance?”

“Gone, of course,” answered the son, in a loud and insolent tone.  “Do you expect to keep me on miserable driblets like that?”

“Thirty dollars a week, and board and lodging, are enough for any reasonable young man, Myndert.  I cannot give you more.”

The son glared on his father and Marcus Wilkeson (holding the latter chiefly responsible for the refusal) with amazement.

“Since you are obstinate, then, make it three hundred.”  The son had often been able to obtain half or two thirds of what he originally asked, as a compromise.