Cleland Senior glanced involuntarily from the empty chair to the table, where, as always, a third place had been laid by Meachem, and, as always, a fresh flower lay beside the service plate. No matter what the occasion, under all circumstances and invariably Meachem laid a fresh blossom of some sort beside the place which nobody used. Cleland Senior gazed at the frail cluster of frisia in silence. Through the second floor hallway landing, in the library beyond, the boy could see his suitcase, and, lying against it, his hockey stick. Cleland Senior’s preoccupied glance also, at intervals, reverted to these two significant objects. Presently he got up and walked out into the little library, followed in silence by Cleland Junior. There was a very tall clock in that room, which had been made by one of the Willards many years before the elder Cleland’s birth; but it ticked now as aggressively and bumptiously as though it were brand new. The father wandered about for a while, perhaps with the vague idea of finding a match for his cigar; the son’s clear gaze followed his father’s restless movements until the clock struck the half hour. "Father?" "Yes, dear—yes, old chap?"—with forced carelessness which deceived neither. "It’s half past nine." "All right, Jim—any time you’re ready." "I hate to go back and leave you all alone here!" broke out the boy impulsively. It was a moment of painful tension. Cleland Senior did not reply; and the boy, conscious of the emotion which his voice had betrayed, and suddenly shy about it, turned his head and gazed out into the back yard. Father and son still wore mourning; the black garments made the boy’s hair and skin seem fairer than they really were—as fair as his dead mother’s. When Cleland Senior concluded that he was able to speak in a perfectly casual and steady voice, he said: "Have you had a pretty good holiday, Jim?" "Fine, father!" "That’s good. That’s as it should be. We’ve enjoyed a pretty good time together, my son; haven’t we?" "Great! It was a dandy vacation!" There came another silence. On the boy’s face lingered a slight retrospective smile, as he mentally reviewed the two weeks now ending with the impending departure for school. Certainly he had had a splendid time. His father had engineered all sorts of parties and amusements for him—schoolboy gatherings at the Ice Rink; luncheons and little dances in their own home, to which school comrades and children of old friends were bidden; trips to the Bronx, to the Aquarium, to the Natural History Museum; wonderful evenings at home together. The boy had gone with his father to see the "Wizard of Oz," to see Nazimova in "The Comet"—a doubtful experiment, but in line with theories of Cleland Senior—to see "The Fall of Port Arthur" at the Hippodrome; to hear Calvé at the Opera.