“Scotch.  Bring the decanter,” murmured Dysart to the servant.

When it was served he drained the glass, refilled it, and turned in the rest of the mineral water.  Before he spoke he emptied the glass again and rang for more mineral water.  Then he looked at Duane and said in a low voice: 

“I thought you were worried the other day when I saw you at my house.”

“What is that to you?”

Dysart said:  “You were very kind—­under provocation.”

“I was not kind on your account.”

“I understand.  But I don’t forget such things.”

Duane glanced at him in profound contempt.  Here was the stereotyped scoundrel with the classical saving trait—­the one conventionally inevitable impulse for good shining like a diamond on a muck-heap—­his apparently disinterested affection for his father.

“You were very decent to me that day,” Dysart said.  “You had something to say to me—­but were good enough not to.  I came over to-night to give you a chance to curse me out.  It’s the square thing to do.”

“What do you know about square dealing?”

“Go on.”

“I have nothing to add.”

“Then I have if you’ll let me.”  He paused; the other remained silent.  “I’ve this to say:  you are worried sick; I saw that.  What worries you concerns your father.  You were merciful to mine.  I’ll do what I can for you.”

He swallowed half of what remained in his iced glass, set it back on the table with fastidious precision: 

“The worst that can happen to your father is to lose control of the Yo Espero property.  I think he is going to lose it.  They’ve crowded me out.  If I could have endured the strain I’d have stood by your father—­for what you did for mine....  But I couldn’t, Mallett.”

He moistened his lips again; leaned forward: 

“I think I know one thing about you, anyway; and I’m not afraid you’d ever use any words of mine against me——­”

“Don’t say them!” retorted Duane sharply.

But Dysart went on: 

“You have no respect for me.  You found out one thing about me that settled me in your opinion.  Outside of that, however, you never liked me.”

“That is perfectly true.”

“I know it.  And I want to say now that it was smouldering irritation from that source—­wounded vanity, perhaps—­coupled with worry and increasing cares, that led to that outburst of mine.  I never really believed that my wife needed any protection from the sort of man you are.  You are not that kind.”

“That also is true.”

“And I know it.  And now I’ve cleared up these matters; and there’s another.”  He bit his lip, thought a moment, then with a deep, long breath: 

“When you struck me that night I—­deserved it.  I was half crazy, I think—­with what I had done—­with a more material but quite as ruinous situation developing here in town—­with domestic complications—­never mind where all the fault lay—­it was demoralising me.  Do you think that I am not perfectly aware that I stand very much alone among men?  Do you suppose that I am not aware of my personal unpopularity as far as men are concerned?  I have never had an intimate friend—­except Delancy Grandcourt.  And I’ve treated him like a beast.  There’s something wrong about me; there always has been.”