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." His father took the outstretched hand, lifted his faded eyes with a strange dumb look; and so they parted.
On Fifth Avenue and Fifty-ninth Street, Duane, swinging along at a good pace, turned westward, and half-way to Sixth Avenue encountered Guy Wilton going east, a packet under one arm, stick and hat in the other hand, the summer wind blowing the thick curly hair from his temples.
"Ah," observed Wilton, "early bird and worm, I suppose?
Don't try to bolt me, Duane; I'm full of tough and undigested--er--problems, myself.
Besides, I'm fermenting.