"I can't believe it," said Mr. Van Pycke, a sudden pallor almost retrieving the lost complexion at the end of his nose. He then went about the search in earnest, ultimately discovering his son in his room at the club, busily engaged in superintending the packing of cherished Penates. "Is what I hear true, Bosworth?" demanded the old gentleman, without preliminaries. "Sit down, dad. Try that trunk. The chairs seem to be occupied by odds and ends." Bosworth was in his shirt sleeves. His hands were dirty, and there was a long dark streak across his brow. "I'm moving." "Moving? What the devil's the meaning of all this?" sputtered his father, kicking a package of rugs out of the way. "I can't afford to live here on twenty-five hundred a year," said his son, genially. The perspiring porters retired to the hall. "But you have twelve thou--" "And I have decided to save that twelve thousand. My salary will have to do for a few years, dad." "Your salary? Then it is true?" It was almost a wail. "It does seem too good to be true, doesn't it? I am like you, dad. I didn't believe any one would hire me. But Mr. Krosson seems to think I've got it in me to--" "Bosworth," interrupted his father, sternly, "I won't permit you to make an ass of yourself. I forbid you--" "Hold on, dad," said Bosworth, rather shortly. "We won't discuss it unless we can do so agreeably. I'm going into this thing with all my heart, and I mean to stick to it. There's an end to that. I'm tired of leading an absolutely useless, butterfly life." "But, my boy, my boy," groaned the other, "this step will blast every prospect of a suitable marriage. Demmit all, no one will marry you." "I'm not so sure of that," said his son, sticking his hands into his pockets and breathing deeply. "I think, if I'm careful, I can make a very suitable marriage." "Rubbish! Who'd marry a secretary?" sniffed Mr. Van Pycke, jabbing a chair-back with his cane. Bosworth radiated joy. "I would!" he cried so emphatically that Mr. Van Pycke almost rose to his toes. "That's not the point, sir," said he, a little bewildered. "You can't marry yourself." Bosworth laughed softly, but ventured no explanation to the odd remark. If, during the next ten minutes, his father noticed a detached, far-away look in the young man's eyes, he attributed it to the force of his own arguments. Just as he was beginning to feel that he had succeeded in turning the thoughtful young man from his suicidal course, Bosworth came to himself with a start. "Beg pardon, dad; my mind must have been wandering. What were you saying?" "Do--do you mean to tell me you haven't heard what I've been saying to you?" roared the old gentleman, coming to his feet. "I'm sorry; but, you see, this new undertaking is on my mind all the time. It's a rather serious step I'm taking and I can't help giving it a good deal of thought. Mr. Krosson says he'll raise my salary at the end of--"