ated at a table. In one hand he held a
bronze-colored magazine, and in the other a silver knife. In the window
was a gilt cage in which a bird was singing, and on the table was a
profusion of roses--the room itself was vast and chill. One wall was
lined, the entire length, with well-filled book-shelves. In a corner was
a square pile of volumes, bound in pale sheep, which a lawyer would have
recognized as belonging to the pleasant literature of his profession.
And over the book-shelves was a row of Varicks, standing in the upright
idleness which is peculiar to portraits in oil. It was many years since
Tristrem had entered this room; yet now, save for the scent of flowers
and the bird-cage, it was practically unchanged.

"Father," he began at once, "I would not have ventured to disturb you
if--if--that is, unless I had something important to say." He was
looking at his father, but his father was not looking at him. "It is
this," he continued, irritated in spite of himself by the complete
disinterestedness of one whose son he was; "I am engaged to be married."

At this announcement Mr. Varick fluttered the paper-knife, but said
nothing.

"The young lady is Miss Raritan," he added, and then paused, amazed at
the expression of his father's face. It was as though unseen hands were
torturing it at will. The mouth, cheeks, and eyelids quivered and
twitched, and then abruptly Mr. Varick raised the bronze-colored
magazine, held it before his tormented features, and when he lowered it
again his expression was as apathetic as before.

"You are ill!" Tristrem exclaimed, advancing to him.

But Mr. Varick shook his head, and motioned him back. "It is nothing,"
he answered. "Let me see, you were saying----?"

"I am engaged to Miss Raritan."

"The daughter of----"

"Her father was Roanoke Raritan. He was minister somewhere--to England
or to France, I believe."

While Tristrem was giving this information Mr. Varick went to the
window. He looked at the occupant of the gilt cage, and ran a thumb
through the wires. The bird ruffled its feathers, cocked its head, and
edged gingerly along the perch, reproving the intrusive finger with the
scorn and glitter of two eyes of bead. But the anger of the canary was
brief. In a moment Mr. Varick left the cage, and turned again to his
son.

"Nothing you could do," he said, "would please me better."

"Thank you," Tristrem answered, "I----"

"Are you to be married at once?"

"Not before