Of course, he should see her again. (He put aside a wonder if it would be within the proprieties on that evening or, at latest, the next.) But, in any case, “the episode,” as he had said to her, was done, and it had been very pleasant—­oh, yes, very dear to him.  He wondered if she was finding the day as interminable as it seemed to him, and if the interval before they saw each other again would seem as long as his impatience would make it for him.  Finally, the restless dullness became intolerable.  He sallied forth into the weather and went to his club, having been on non-resident footing during his absence, and, finding some men whom he knew, spent there the rest of the afternoon.

His father was at home and in his room when John got back.

“Well, father,” he said, “the prodigal has returned.”

“He is very welcome,” was the reply, as the elder man took both his son’s hands and looked at him affectionately.  “You seem very well.”

“Yes,” said John; “and how are you, sir?”

“About as usual, I think,” said Mr. Lenox.

They looked at each other for a moment in silence.  John thought that his father seemed thinner than formerly, and he had instantly observed that a white beard covered the always hitherto smooth-shaven chin, but he made no comment.

“The old place appears very familiar,” he remarked.  “Nothing is changed or even moved, as I can see, and Ann and Jeff are just the same old sixpences as ever.”

“Yes,” said his father, “two years make less difference with old people and their old habits than with young ones.  You will have changed more than we have, I fancy.”

“Do we dress for dinner?” asked John, after some little more unimportant talk.

“Yes,” said his father, “in honor of the occasion, if you like.  I haven’t done it lately,” he added, a little wearily.

* * * * *

“I haven’t had such a glass of wine since I left home,” John remarked as they sat together after dinner.

“No,” said his father, looking thoughtfully at his glass, “it’s the old ‘Mouton,’ and pretty nearly the last of it; it’s very old and wants drinking,” he observed as he held his glass up to get the color.  “It has gone off a bit even in two years.”

“All right,” said John cheerfully, “we’ll drink it to save it, if needs be.”  The elder man smiled and filled both glasses.

There had been more or less talk during the meal, but nothing of special moment.  John sat back in his chair, absently twirling the stem of his glass between thumb and fingers.  Presently he said, looking straight before him at the table:  “I have been thinking a good deal of late—­more than ever before, positively, in fact—­that whatever my prospects may be,” (he did not see the momentary contraction of his father’s brow) “I ought to begin some sort of a career in earnest.  I’m afraid,” he continued, “that I have been rather unmindful, and that I might have been of some use to you as well as myself if I had stayed at home instead of spending the last two years in Europe.”