Van Pycke was staring straight before him. His brain seemed clearer when he replied. There was a distinctly plaintive note in his voice. "I wonder if I _could_ make good at work of any kind. Do you suppose any one would give me a trial?" "In a minute, Buzzy! And you would make good. Better stay in to-night. Let the--" "No," said Buzzy, resolutely. "I'm going to try the other thing first. That's what I've been trained for. Good night, George. Don't tell the fellows, will you? They'll guy me to death. I just wanted you to understand that I can't go on as I'm going on twelve thousand a year." "I quite understand, old boy." Buzzy held his hand for a moment, looking quite steadily into his eyes. "You don't think I'm as useless as the rest of 'em think I am, do you, George?" "God bless you, no! No one thinks that of you!" "George, I hate a liar," said Buzzy, but his face glowed with a happy smile. In the lobby he met his father. "Where the devil have you been?" demanded Van Pycke, senior. "Damitall, I've wasted half an hour waiting for you." "I didn't know you were waiting, dad. Why didn't you send in your card?" "Send in my--why, confound you, Bosworth, I'm a member of this club. Why should I send in--" "Don't lose your temper, dad. I apologize for keeping you waiting. Don't let me keep you any longer." Mr. Van Pycke looked his son over very carefully. A pained expression came into his face. "Bosworth, I am sorry to see you in this condition. It grieves me beyond measure. You have never--" "It's an awful night, isn't it, dad? Can't I give you a lift in my taxicab? I see you've got on your overcoat and hat." Bosworth was moving toward the clubhouse entrance. The old gentleman resolutely kept pace with him. "That's just what I meant to ask you," said he, with some celerity. "I--I can't get a cab of any sort for love or money. It's generous--" "You can't get much of anything for love in these days, dad, except love." Mr. Van Pycke pondered this while Bosworth got into his coat and hat. "I am very sorry to see you intox--" "Dad, I 'm celebrating," said his son, halting just inside the door. "Celebrating what?" "My approaching marriage, sir." Mr. Van Pycke dropped the glove he was pulling on. He went very white, except for his nose. That seemed redder by contrast. "Not--not a chorus girl?" he stammered, his hand shaking as he raised it to his brow. "No, dad. Not yet. I expect to marry some one else first. I'll save the other for a rainy day." "Who--who is it, my boy? Who is it?" "That, sir, is still a matter of conjecture. I haven't quite got down to the point of selecting--" "You insufferable booby," roared his father. "You gave me a--a dreadful shock, sir! Never do that again." "I thought you'd like to know, sir," said Bosworth, politely. He winked gravely at a mahogany doorpost, and motioned for his father to precede him through the storm doors.