eyes.  Old Thomas Burton was shaven and manicured and betailored into a model of well-nourished—­possibly over-nourished—­senectitude.  His mustaches and beard were waxed and pointed.  Once he had deplored the necessity and trouble of the Sabbath shave—­and his hair had known no law of shears or shampoo.  In his lapel a gardenia was carefully placed so that it should not obscure the button which proclaimed him a Son of the American Revolution.  He restlessly tapped his gaitered boots with a stick upon whose gold head was carven the Burton crest.

As Hamilton came forward the elder man rose and turned with some embarrassment.  In his movements the son read with a pang of sudden realization the approaching atrophy of age.  “I’m sorry to intrude on your office hours, Hamilton,” began the father, “but the fact is—­I—­er—­I—­” he broke off confusedly.

Tom Burton was mightily changed, but now and again an echo of the old self harassed his reincarnation.  He had never learned to beg for money with the unabashed ease of an aristocratic parasite.  While it was in his pocket he could top the extravagance of a drunken sailor, but when its lack drove him again to his bountiful son he came haltingly—­covered with confusion.

“What is it, father?” Hamilton clapped the old gentleman on the shoulder and declared, “When you come others can wait.”

Tom Burton flushed deeply.  “I—­er—­well, I’ve had a notice of over-draft from my bank.”

Hamilton Burton’s brows contracted.

“Did they keep you sitting here, cooling your heels like a book-agent until I arrived?  Why didn’t you go direct to Corbin?  He has carte blanche to accommodate you in every demand you choose to make.”

Again Tom Burton spoke hesitantly.

“I did—­er—­mention it to Mr. Corbin.  He was very polite, but he suggested that, unless I was in urgent haste, I’d better wait until you came in....  He reminded me that—­er—­that I’d made rather heavy demands of late, and I’m bound to say it’s true.”

The young financier threw back his head and his eyes burst into a blaze of white-hot anger.

“Hell-fire and damnation!” he stormed.  “Is my money my own or is it to be doled out by parsimonious hirelings?  Must I beg my servants’ consent to supply my family with funds?”

“Mr. Corbin was very courteous,” placated the old man in a mild voice.

“Courteous!” The word crackled like a mule whip.  “Who is Corbin to be patronizingly courteous to my father?  Are you to approach me only through a cordon of lackeys?” He broke off and started to slam his palm down on a table-bell that should bring the too-careful subordinate face to face with his anger, but he stayed his hand half-way, and began talking again.