“Yes, to be sure, yes, to be sure!” piped the old beau.  “How-de-do!  How-de-do-o-o!  My son Jack and I motor every morning at this hour.  It is becoming a custom—­he! he!—­every day from ten to eleven—­then a biscuit and a glass of sherry—­then a nap—­te-he!  Oh, yes, every day, Mr. Mallett, rain or fair—­then luncheon at one, and the cigarette—­te-he!—­and a little sleep—­and the drive at five!  Yes, Mr. Mallett, it is the routine of a very old man who knew your grandfather—­and all his set—­when the town was gay below Bleecker Street!  Yes, yes—­te-he-he!”

Nervous spasms which passed as smiles distorted the younger Dysart’s visage; the aged beau offered his hand to Duane, who took it in silence, his eyes fixed on the shrivelled, painted face: 

“Your grandfather was a very fine man,” he piped; “very fine! ve-ery fine!  And so I perceive is his grandson—­te-he!—­and I flatter myself that my boy Jack is not unadmired—­te-he-he!—­no, no—­not precisely unnoticed in New York—­the town whose history is the history of his own race, Mr. Mallett—­he is a good son to me—­yes, yes, a good son.  It is gratifying to me to know that you are his friend.  He is a good friend to have, Mr. Mallett, a good friend and a good son.”

Duane bent gently over the shrivelled hand.

“I won’t detain you from your drive, Mr. Dysart.  I hope you will have a pleasant one.  It is a pleasure to know my grandfather’s old friends.  Good-bye.”

And, erect, he hesitated a moment, then, for an old man’s sake he held out his hand to Jack Dysart, bidding him good-bye in a pleasant voice pitched clear and decided, so that deaf ears might corroborate what half-blind and peering eyes so dimly beheld.

Dysart walked to the door with him, waved the servant aside, and, laying a shaking hand on the bronze knob, opened the door for his unbidden guest.

As Duane passed him he said: 

“Thank you, Mallett,” in a voice so low that Duane was half-way to his cab before he understood.

* * * * *

That day, and the next, and all that week he worked in his pitlike studio.  Through the high sky-window a cloudless zenith brooded; the heat became terrific; except for the inevitable crush of the morning and evening migration south and north, the streets were almost empty under a blazing sun.

His father seemed to be physically better.  Although he offered no confidences, it appeared to the son that there was something a little more cheerful in his voice and manner.  It may have been only the anticipation of departure; for he was going West in a day or two, and it came out that Wilton was going with him.

The day he left, Duane drove him to the station.  There was a private car, the “Cyane,” attached to the long train.  Wilton met them, spoke pleasantly to Duane; but Colonel Mallett did not invite his son to enter the car, and adieux were said where they stood.