“It may amuse you,” he said carelessly, “to know how much I’ve made since I came back from Paris.”

The elder man looked up preoccupied.  His son went on: 

“What you set aside for me brings me ten thousand a year, you know.  So far I haven’t touched it.  Isn’t that pretty good for a start?”

Colonel Mallett sat up straighter with a glimmer of interest in his eyes.

Duane went on, checking off on his fingers: 

“I got fifteen hundred for Mrs. Varick’s portrait, the same for Mrs. James Cray’s, a thousand each for portraits of Carl and Friedrich Gumble; that makes five thousand.  Then I had three thousand for the music-room I did for Mrs. Ellis; and Dinklespiel Brothers, who handle my pictures, have sold every one I sent; which gives me twelve thousand so far.”

“I am perfectly astonished,” murmured his father.

Duane laughed.  “Oh, I know very well that sheer merit had nothing much to do with it.  The people who gave me orders are all your friends.  They did it as they might have sent in wedding presents; I am your son; I come back from Paris; it’s up to them to do something.  They’ve done it—­those who ever will, I expect—­and from now on it will be different.”

“They’ve given you a start,” said his father.

“They certainly have done that.  Many a brilliant young fellow, with more ability than I, eats out his heart unrecognised, sterilised for lack of what came to me because of your influence.”

“It is well to look at it in that way for the present,” said his father.  He sat silent for a while, staring through the dusk at the lighted windows of houses in the rear.  Then: 

“I have meant to say, Duane, that I—­we”—­he found a little difficulty in choosing his words—­“that the Trust Company’s officers feel that, for the present, it is best for them to reconsider their offer that you should undertake the mural decoration of the new building.”

“Oh,” said Duane, “I’m sorry!—­but it’s all right, father.”

“I told them you’d take it without offence.  I told them that I’d tell you the reason we do not feel quite ready to incur, at this moment, any additional expenses.”

“Everybody is economising,” said Duane cheerfully, “so I understand.  No doubt—­later——­”

“No doubt,” said his father gravely.

The son’s attitude was careless, untroubled; he dropped one long leg over the other knee, and idly examining his cigar, cast one swift level look at the older man: 

“Father?”

“Yes, my son.”

“I—­it just occurred to me that if you happen to have any temporary use for what you very generously set aside for me, don’t stand on ceremony.”

There ensued a long silence.  It was his bedtime when Colonel Mallett stirred in his holland-covered armchair and stood up.

“Thank you, my son,” he said simply; they shook hands and separated; the father to sleep, if he could; the son to go out into the summer night, walk to his nearest club, and write his daily letter to the woman he loved: