With each of these renewals of the narrative the Bonanza King subsided against his chair-back in a limp attitude, staring with gloomy fixity at his boy, and expelling his breath in a long audible rush of air, which was sometimes a sigh and sometimes approached the proportions of a groan.
At the end of dinner, when Gene announced his intention of leaving as he was to attend a vaudeville performance, the old man began to show signs of reviving animation, going so far as politely to ask his son where he was going and with whom. His manner was marked by a warm, hearty encouragement, as he said,
“Get the whole vaudeville program down by heart, Gene, and you can tell it to us to-morrow night. There’ll be about twelve parts to it, and Rose can order two extra courses for dinner, and we might hire some men with stringed instruments for an accompaniment.”
Gene, with innocent good-humor, responded gaily.
“All right, father, I’ll give it my best attention, and if there’s anything especially good, I’ll report to you. You and Rose might like to go some night.”
His father, disappointed that his shaft had made no impression upon the young man’s invulnerable amiability, emitted a scornful snort, and made no further response to Gene’s cheery “Good night.”
“There,” he said, in tones expressing his relief, as the portière dropped behind his son’s departing figure, “he’s gone! Now, Rosey, you and I can have a talk.”
“Yes,” said his daughter, looking at her coffee-cup, “that’s what I wanted. I want to have a long talk with you to-night, papa.”
“Fire away,” said the old man. “I’ve had to listen to that fool for an hour, and it’s broken my spirit. You can say anything you like.”
“Not here,” said his daughter; “in the sitting-room. I’ll go in there and wait for you.”