“Hallo, Dad—­Yes:  Dallas.  I say—­how do you feel about sailing on Wednesday?  Mauretania:  Yes, next Wednesday as ever is.  Our client wants me to look at some Italian gardens before we settle anything, and has asked me to nip over on the next boat.  I’ve got to be back on the first of June—­” the voice broke into a joyful conscious laugh—­“so we must look alive.  I say, Dad, I want your help:  do come.”

Dallas seemed to be speaking in the room:  the voice was as near by and natural as if he had been lounging in his favourite arm-chair by the fire.  The fact would not ordinarily have surprised Archer, for long-distance telephoning had become as much a matter of course as electric lighting and five-day Atlantic voyages.  But the laugh did startle him; it still seemed wonderful that across all those miles and miles of country—­forest, river, mountain, prairie, roaring cities and busy indifferent millions—­Dallas’s laugh should be able to say:  “Of course, whatever happens, I must get back on the first, because Fanny Beaufort and I are to be married on the fifth.”

The voice began again:  “Think it over?  No, sir:  not a minute.  You’ve got to say yes now.  Why not, I’d like to know?  If you can allege a single reason—­No; I knew it.  Then it’s a go, eh?  Because I count on you to ring up the Cunard office first thing tomorrow; and you’d better book a return on a boat from Marseilles.  I say, Dad; it’ll be our last time together, in this kind of way—.  Oh, good!  I knew you would.”

Chicago rang off, and Archer rose and began to pace up and down the room.

It would be their last time together in this kind of way:  the boy was right.  They would have lots of other “times” after Dallas’s marriage, his father was sure; for the two were born comrades, and Fanny Beaufort, whatever one might think of her, did not seem likely to interfere with their intimacy.  On the contrary, from what he had seen of her, he thought she would be naturally included in it.  Still, change was change, and differences were differences, and much as he felt himself drawn toward his future daughter-in-law, it was tempting to seize this last chance of being alone with his boy.

There was no reason why he should not seize it, except the profound one that he had lost the habit of travel.  May had disliked to move except for valid reasons, such as taking the children to the sea or in the mountains:  she could imagine no other motive for leaving the house in Thirty-ninth Street or their comfortable quarters at the Wellands’ in Newport.  After Dallas had taken his degree she had thought it her duty to travel for six months; and the whole family had made the old-fashioned tour through England, Switzerland and Italy.  Their time being limited (no one knew why) they had omitted France.  Archer remembered Dallas’s wrath at being asked to contemplate Mont Blanc instead of Rheims and Chartres.  But Mary and Bill wanted mountain-climbing, and had already