"Oh, all right. If you were, I was going to suggest that I've deposited what I have, subject to your order, with your own cashier."
"That is—very kind of you, my son. I may—find use for it—for a short time. Would you take my note?"
Duane laughed. He went on presently: "I wrote Naïda the other day. She has given me power of attorney. What she has is there, any time you need it."
His father hung his head in silence; only his colourless and shrunken hands worked on the arms of his chair.
"See here, father," said the young fellow; "don't let this thing bother you. Anything that could possibly happen is better than to have you look and feel as you do. Suppose the very worst happens—which it won't—but suppose it did and we all went gaily to utter smash.
"That is a detail compared with your going to smash physically. Because Naïda and I never did consider such things vital; and mother is a brick when it comes to a show-down. And as for me, why, if the very worst hits us, I can take care of our bunch. It's in me to do it. I suppose you don't think so. But I can make money enough to keep us together, and, after all, that's the main thing."
His father said nothing.
"Of course," laughed Duane, "I don't for a moment suppose that anything like that is on the cards. I don't know what your fortune is, but judging from your generosity to Naïda and me I fancy it's too solid to worry over. The trouble with you gay old capitalists," he added, "is that you think in such enormous sums! And you forget that little sums are required to make us all very happy; and if some of the millions which you cannot possibly ever use happen to escape you, the tragic aspect as it strikes you is out of all proportion to the real state of the case."
His father felt the effort his son was making; looked up wearily, strove to smile, to relight his cigar; which Duane did for him, saying:
"As long as you are not mixed up in that Klawber, Skelton, Moebus crowd, I'm not inclined to worry. It seems, as of course you know, that Dysart's brokers failed to-day."