John, retiring late, would often hear him stirring uneasily in his room, and it would be plain in the morning that he had spent a wakeful, if not a sleepless, night.

Once or twice on such a morning John had suggested to his father that he should not go down to the office, and the suggestion had been met with so irritable a negative as to excite his wonder.
* * * * * It was a day in the latter part of March.

The winter had been unusually severe, and lingered into spring with a heart-sickening tenacity, occasional hints of clemency and promise being followed by recurrences which were as irritating as a personal affront.
John had held to his work in the office, if not with positive enthusiasm, at least with industry, and thought that he had made some progress.

On the day in question the managing clerk commented briefly but favorably on something of his which was satisfactory, and, such experiences being rare, he was conscious of a feeling of mild elation.
He was also cherishing the anticipation of a call at Sixty-ninth Street, where, for reasons unnecessary to recount, he had not been for a week.
At dinner that night his father seemed more inclined than for a long time to keep up a conversation which, though of no special import, was cheerful in comparison with the silence which had grown to be almost the rule, and the two men sat for a while over the coffee and cigars.
Presently, however, the elder rose from the table, saying pleasantly, "I suppose you are going out to-night." "Not if you'd like me to stay in," was the reply.

"I have no definite engagement." "Oh, no," said Mr.Lenox, "not at all, not at all," and as he passed his son on the way out of the room he put out his hand and taking John's, said, "Good night." As John stood for a moment rather taken aback, he heard his father mount the stairs to his room.