At dinner, with a rush of contrition¹, Mrs. Peyton remembered that she had after all not spoken to Darrow about his health. He had distracted her by beginning to talk of Dick; and besides, much as Darrow’s opinions interested her, his personality had never fixed² her attention. He always seemed to her simply a vehicle for the transmission of ideas.

It was Dick who recalled her to a sense of her omission³ by asking if she hadn’t thought that old Paul looked rather more ragged⁴ than usual.

“He did look tired,” Mrs. Peyton conceded. “I meant to tell him to take care of himself.”

Dick laughed at the futility⁵ of the measure. “Old Paul is never tired: he can work twenty-five hours out of the twenty-four. The trouble with him is that he’s ill. Something wrong with the machinery⁶, I’m afraid.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Has he seen a doctor?”

“He wouldn’t listen to me when I suggested it the other day; but he’s so deuced mysterious that I don’t know what he may have done since.” Dick rose, putting down his coffee-cup and half-smoked cigarette. “I’ve half a mind to pop in on him tonight and see how he’s getting on.”

“But he lives at the other end of the earth; and you’re tired yourself.”

“I’m not tired; only a little strung-up,” he returned, smiling. “And besides, I’m going to meet Gill at the office by and by and put in a night’s work. It won’t hurt me to take a look at Paul first.”

Mrs. Peyton was silent. She knew it was useless to contend with her son about his work, and she tried to fortify⁷ herself with the remembrance of her own words to Darrow: Dick was a man and must take his chance with other men.

But Dick, glancing at his watch, uttered an

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