"I have meant to say, Duane, that I—we"—he found a little difficulty in choosing his words—"that the Trust Company's officers feel that, for the present, it is best for them to reconsider their offer that you should undertake the mural decoration of the new building."
"Oh," said Duane, "I'm sorry!—but it's all right, father."
"I told them you'd take it without offence. I told them that I'd tell you the reason we do not feel quite ready to incur, at this moment, any additional expenses."
"Everybody is economising," said Duane cheerfully, "so I understand. No doubt—later——"
"No doubt," said his father gravely.
The son's attitude was careless, untroubled; he dropped one long leg over the other knee, and idly examining his cigar, cast one swift level look at the older man:
"Father?"
"Yes, my son."
"I—it just occurred to me that if you happen to have any temporary use for what you very generously set aside for me, don't stand on ceremony."
There ensued a long silence. It was his bedtime when Colonel Mallett stirred in his holland-covered armchair and stood up.