Delancy coloured, checked, but presently found voice to continue:

"That's very good of you; I thought I might speak to you about this
Greensleeve & Co.'s failure before Mrs. Dysart returns."

"Certainly," said Duane, surprised; "what about them? They acted for
Dysart at one time, didn't they?"

"They do now."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, I am. I didn't want to say so before Mrs. Dysart. But the
afternoon papers have it. I don't know why they take such a malicious
pleasure in harrying Dysart--unless on account of his connections with
that Yo Espero crowd--what's their names?--Skelton! Oh, yes, James
Skelton--and Emanuel Klawber with his thirty millions and his string of
banks and trusts and mines; and that plunger, Max Moebus, and old Amos
Flack--Flack the hack stalking-horse of every bull-market, who laid down
on his own brokers and has done everybody's dirty work ever since. How
on earth, Mallett, do you suppose Jack Dysart ever got himself mixed up
with such a lot of skyrockets and disreputable fly-by-nights?"

Duane did not answer. He had nothing good to say or think of Dysart.

Rosalie reappeared at that moment in her distractingly pretty pongee
motor-coat and hat.

"Do come back with us, Duane," she said. "There's a rumble and we'll get
the mud off you with a hose."

"I'd like to run down sometimes if you'll let me," he said, shaking
hands.

So they parted, he to return to his studio, where models booked long
ahead awaited him for canvases which he was going on with, although the
great Trust Company that ordered them had practically thrown them back
on his hands.

That evening at home when he came downstairs dressed in white serge for
dinner, he found his father unusually silent, very pale, and so tired
that he barely tasted the dishes the butler offered, and sat for the
most part motionless, head and shoulders sagging against the back of his
chair.

And after dinner in the conservatory Duane lighted his father's cigar
and then his own.

"What's wrong?" he asked, pleasantly invading the privacy of years
because he felt it was the time to do it.

His father slowly turned his head and looked at him--seemed to study
the well-knit, loosely built, athletic figure of this strong young
man--his only son--as though searching for some support in the youthful
strength he gazed upon.

He said, very deliberately, but with a voice not perfectly steady:

"Matters are not going very well, my boy."

"What matte