He fell back with a quick, blind repulsion, and the two stared at each other, the elder man dissolving with difficulty a monstrous smile. He appeared to recover himself with an effort, finding the lines about his mouth refractory, but his embarrassment was so poignant that Ewing felt sorry for him. "You _must_ forgive me, old fellow! These damned treacherous nerves of mine! I shall see that specialist chap of mine directly in the morning. I'm so weak that the sadness of that poor lady's death set me off into something like hysteria." It was one o'clock when they parted, and then only at a hint that the place would close its old-fashioned doors for the night. Ewing rejoiced to feel that he had made a desirable friend. He liked the little man well. Teevan had said at the last. "You should move on to Paris, my boy. You'll need the touch they give only in that blessed rendezvous of the masters." Ewing went to his room realizing that the world of his dreams did actually abound in adventure. His first day had been memorable. Teevan walked through Ninth Street to his own home, a few doors beyond the Bartell house. It was a place of much the same old-fashioned lines, that had withstood the north-setting current. He let himself in and went to the dining room at the rear. Here he lighted a gas jet, took a decanter from the sideboard, and brought a glass and a bottle of soda from the butler's pantry. He sipped the drink and lighted a cigarette. His musings, as first reflected in his face, were agreeable. His mouth twitched pleasantly, his eyes glistened. At intervals he chuckled and muttered. With an increase of brandy in the glass he became more serious. When Alden Teevan entered an hour later he found his father in a mood astonishingly savage. At sight of his son the little man became vocal with meaningless abuse. It was as if the presence of a listener incited him to continue aloud some tirade that he had pursued in silence. But the younger Teevan, lounging in the doorway, only stared with polite concern as he was greeted with these emotional phrases: "--a damned milk-and-water Narcissus--a pretentious cub with the airs of a cheap manikin of the world--a squeaking parasite--a toadlike, damned obscenity----" An easy smile came to the son's face as he noted the fallen tide in the decanter. "Night-night, my quaint, amiable father--and cheery dreams!" They studied each other a moment. The elder man seemed to meditate some disclosure, but stopped on the verge of it. "That's all, my boy!" The young man laughed again. "It's enough, I fancy--but don't overdo it, Randy. You know one mustn't at your age." "I'm taking care, taking care of everything, my boy--never you fear----" The other passed on, but stopped at the stairway and called back: "I say, Randy!" "Yes--yes----" "Get to bed, you absurd little rat, you!" CHAPTER XI A NIGHT AT THE MONASTERY