Standing with his hands in his trousers’ pockets, his chest hollowed, his red-rimmed eyes half shut behind the _pince-nez_ he always wore, and his slight mustache not sufficient to hide a smile, the foolishness of which rose from embarrassment, he was not a son to fill a father’s heart with pride. “Howdy, Governor,” he said, trying to be easy; then, seeing the paper in his father’s hand, folded back at the death notices, “anybody new born, dead, or married this morning?” His voice rasped unbearably on his father’s mood. The older man gave him a look over his shoulder, with a face that made the boy quail. “Get away,” he said, savagely; “get in the house and leave me alone.” Win turned and entered the house. The foolish smile was still on his lips. Pride kept it there, but at heart he was bitterly wounded. At the foot of the stairway he met his mother. “You’d better not go out there,” he said, with a movement of his head in the direction of his father; “it’s as much as your life’s worth. The old man’ll bite your nose off if you do.” “Is your father cross?” asked Bessie. “Cross? He oughtn’t to be let loose when he’s like that.” “Something in the paper must have upset him,” said Bessie. “He was all right this morning before he came down. Something on the stock market’s bothered him.” “Maybe so,” said his son, with a certain feeling. “But that’s no reason why he should speak to me like a dog. He goes too far when he speaks to me that way. There isn’t a servant in the house would stand it.” He balanced back and forth on his toes and heels, looking down, his face flushed. It would have been hard to say--such was the characterless insignificance of his appearance--whether he was really hurt, as a man would be in his heart and his pride, or only momentarily stung by a scornful word. Bessie passed him and went out on the balcony. Her husband was still sitting on the steps, the paper in his hand. “What is it, Jake?” she said. “Win says you’re cross. Something gone wrong?” “Lucy’s dead,” he answered, rising to his feet and handing her the paper. She paled a little as she read the notice. Then, raising her eyes, they met his. In this look was their knowledge of the secret that both had struggled to keep, and that now, at last, was theirs. For the second time in a half-year, Death had stepped in and claimed one of the four whose lives had touched so briefly and so momentously twenty-five years before. “Poor Lucy!” said Bessie, in a low voice. “But they say she was very happy with Moreau. You can do something for your--for the girl now.” “Yes,” he said; “I’ll think it over. I won’t be down to breakfast. Send up some coffee.” He went upstairs and locked himself in his library. He could not understand why the news had affected him so deeply. It seemed to make him feel sick. He did not tell Bessie that he had gone upstairs because he felt too ill and shaken to see any one.