“I would love to come, sir, and it's very kind of you to ask me. There's to be a dance at my uncle's tomorrow night, though I reckon I can be excused. Would you--would you come to see me instead? I want you to see my father's portrait. It's not you, and yet it's like you when you turn your head; and there are some other things. I'd like--” Here the boy stopped. Peter considered for a moment. Calling at the house of a man he did not know, even to continue the acquaintance of so charming a young fellow as his nephew, was not one of the things punctilious Mr. Grayson--punctilious as to forms of etiquette--was accustomed to do. The young man read his thoughts and added quickly: “Of course I'll do just as you say, but if you only would come we will be entirely alone and won't see anybody else in the house.” “But couldn't you possibly come to me?” Peter urged. The fact that young Breen had a suite of rooms so sequestered as to be beyond the reach even of a dance, altered the situation to some extent, but he was still undecided. “I live all alone when my sister is not with me, and I, too, have many things I am sure would interest you. Say you'll come now--I shall expect you, shall I not?” The boy hesitated. “You may not know exactly what I mean,” he said slowly. “Maybe you can't understand, for everybody about here seems to love you, and you must have lots of friends. The fact is, I feel out of everything. I get pretty lonely sometimes. Garry, here, never stays five minutes when he comes to see me, so many people are after him all the time. Please say you'll come!” There was a note in the boy's voice that swept away all the older man's scruples. “Come, my son! Of course I'll come,” burst out Peter. “I'll be there at nine o'clock.” As Morris and the others passed between the table and the wall on their way to the cloak-room, Minott, who had listened to the whole conversation, waited until he thought Peter had gone ahead, and then, with an impatient gesture, said: “What the devil, Jack, do you want to waste your time over an old fellow like that for?” “Oh, Garry, don't--” “Don't! A bald-headed old pill who ought to have--” Then the two passed out of hearing. CHAPTER IV Breakfast--any meal for that matter--in the high-wainscoted, dark-as-a-pocket dining-room of the successful Wall Street broker--the senior member of the firm of A. Breen & Co., uncle, guardian and employer of the fresh, rosy-cheeked lad who sat next to Peter on the night of Morris's dinner, was never a joyous function.