They departed upon no visible or audible suggestion, and with a promptness that seemed ominous to the new-comer.

As the massive door clicked softly behind the elderly stenographer, the last of the procession, Bibbs had a feeling that they all understood that he was a failure as a great man's son, a disappointment, the "queer one" of the family, and that he had been summoned to judgment--a well-founded impression, for that was exactly what they understood.
"Sit down," said Sheridan.
It is frequently an advantage for deans, school-masters, and worried fathers to place delinquents in the sitting-posture.

Bibbs sat.
Sheridan, standing, gazed enigmatically upon his son for a period of silence, then walked slowly to a window and stood looking out of it, his big hands, loosely hooked together by the thumbs, behind his back.

They were soiled, as were all other hands down-town, except such as might be still damp from a basin.
"Well, Bibbs," he said at last, not altering his attitude, "do you know what I'm goin' to do with you ?" Bibbs, leaning back in his chair, fixed his eyes contemplatively upon the ceiling.

"I heard you tell Jim," he began, in his slow way.