your own house?"

"Come, come!" rumbled John Woodbury. "A young fellow in your position
can't have a boor for a father, eh?"

It was apparently an old argument between them, for Anthony stared
gloomily at the fire, making no attempt to reply; and he glanced up in
relief when the servant entered with the liquor. John Woodbury, however,
returned to the charge as soon as they were left alone again, saying:
"As a matter of fact, I'm about to set you up in an establishment of
your own in New York." He made a vastly inclusive gesture. "Everything
done up brown--old house--high-class interior decorator, to get you
started with a splash."

"Are you tired of Long Island?"

"_I'm_ not going to the city, but you will."

"And my work?"

"A gentleman of the class you'll be in can't callous his hands with
work. I spent my life making money; you can use your life throwing it
away--like a gentleman. But"--he reached out at this point and smashed a
burly fist into a palm hardly less hard--"but I'll be damned, Anthony,
if I'll let you stay here in Long Island wasting your time riding the
wildest horses you can get and practising with an infernal revolver.
What the devil do you mean by it?"

"I don't know," said the other, musing. "Of course the days of revolvers
are past, but I love the feel of the butt against my palm--I love the