His uncle was as well dressed as usual, looking as neat and as smart in his dark cut-away coat with the invariable red carnation in his buttonhole, but the boy’s quick eye caught the marks of a certain wear and tear in the face which neither his bath nor his valet had been able to obliterate.  The thin lips—­thin for a man so fat, and which showed, more than any other feature, something of the desultory firmness of his character—­drooped at the corners.  The eyes were half their size, the snap all out of them, the whites lost under the swollen lids.  His greeting, moreover, had lost its customary heartiness.

“You were out late, I hear,” he grumbled, dropping into his chair.  “I didn’t get in myself until two o’clock and feel like a boiled owl.  May have caught a little cold, but I think it was that champagne of Duckworth’s; always gives me a headache.  Don’t put any sugar and cream in that coffee, Parkins—­want it straight.”

“Yes, sir,” replied the flunky, moving toward the sideboard.

“And now, Jack, what did you do?” he continued, picking up his napkin.  “You and Garry made a night of it, didn’t you?  Some kind of an artist’s bat, wasn’t it?”

“No, sir; Mr. Morris gave a dinner to his clerks, and—­”

“Who’s Morris?”

“Why, the great architect.”

“Oh, that fellow!  Yes, I know him, that is, I know who he is.  Say the rest.  Parkins! didn’t I tell you I didn’t want any sugar or cream.”

Parkins hadn’t offered any.  He had only forgotten to remove them from the tray.

Jack kept straight on; these differences between the master and Parkins were of daily occurrence.

“And, Uncle Arthur, I met the most wonderful gentleman I ever saw; he looked just as if he had stepped out of an old frame, and yet he is down in the Street every day and—­”

“What firm?”

“No firm, he is—­”

“Curbstone man, then?” Here Breen lifted the cup to his lips and as quickly put it down.  “Parkins!”

“Yes, sir,” came the monotone.

“Why the devil can’t I get my coffee hot?”

“Is it cold, sir?”—­slight modulation, but still lifeless.

“Is it cold?  Of course it’s cold!  Might have been standing in a morgue.  Take that down and have some fresh coffee sent up.  Servants running oer each other and yet I can’t get a—­Go on, Jack!  I didn’t mean to interrupt, but I’ll clean the whole lot of ’em out of here if I don’t get better service.”

“No, Uncle Arthur, he isn’t a banker—­isn’t even a broker; he’s only a paying teller in a bank,” continued Jack.

The older man turned his head and a look of surprise swept over his round, fat face.

“Teller in a bank?” he asked in an altered tone.

“Yes, the most charming, the most courteous old gentleman I have ever met; I haven’t seen anybody like him since I left home, and, just think, he has promised to come and see me to-night.”