His father breakfasted in his room that morning, but when he appeared in the library Duane was relieved to notice that his step was firmer and he held himself more erect, although his extreme pallor had not changed to a healthier colour.
"You know," said Duane, "you've simply got to get out of town for a while. It's all bally rot, your doing this sort of thing."
"I may go West for a few weeks," said his father absently.
"Are you going down-town?"
"No.... And, Duane, if you don't mind letting me have the house to myself this morning——"
He hesitated, glancing from his son to the telephone.
"Of course not," said Duane heartily. "I'm off to the studio——"
"I don't mean to throw you out," murmured his father with a painful attempt to smile, "but there's a stenographer coming from my office and several—business acquaintances."
The young fellow rose, patted his father's shoulder lightly:
"What is really of any importance," he said, "is that you keep your health and spirits. What I said last night covers my sentiments. If I can do anything in the world for you, tell me."