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Brett, looking upon Callender as his probable father-in-law, turned to the old gentleman and said, with guileful innocence:

“Isn’t there anything you can do, sir, to hold Merriman off? Powers and I are in the market a little, but our customers are in heavy, and the way things are going we’ve got to break whether we like it or not.”

Ordinarily Callender would have pretended that he could have checkmated Merriman if he had wanted to–for in some things he was a child, and it humored him to pretend, and to intimate, and to look wise; but on the present occasion, and much to Powers’s and Brett’s consternation, he began to speak to them gravely, and confidentially, and a little pitifully. They had never before seen him other than jaunty and debonair, whether his family were at Newport or in the mountains.

“It’s all very well for you boys,” he said; “you have youth and resiliency on your side. No matter what happens to you now, in money or in love, you can come again. But we old fellows, buying and selling with one foot in the grave, with families accustomed to luxury dependent on us”–he paused and tugged at his neatly ordered necktie as if to free his throat for the passage of more air–“some of us old fellows,” he said, “if we go now can never come again–never.”

He rose abruptly and walked into the house without a word more; but Brett, after hesitating a moment, followed him. Mr. Callender had stopped in front of the “Delinquent List.” Seeing Brett at his elbow, he pointed with a well-groomed finger to his own name at the beginning of the C’s.

“If I died to-night,” he said, neither gravely nor jocosely, but as if rather interested to know whether he would or would not, “the club would have a hard time to collect that sixteen dollars.”

“Are you serious, sir?” Brett asked.

“If to-morrow is a repetition of to-day,” said Mr. Callender, “you will see the name of Callender & Co. in the evening papers.” His lips trembled slightly under his close-cropped mustache.

“Then,” said Brett, “this is a good opportunity to ask you, sir, if you have any objection to me as a candidate for your youngest daughter.”

Mr. Callender raised his eyebrows. So small a thing as contemplated matrimony did not disturb him under the circumstances.

“My boy,” he said, “I take it you are in earnest. I don’t object to you. I am sure nobody does.”

“Oh, yes,” said Brett; “she does.”

He had succeeded in making Mr. Callender laugh.

“But,” Brett went on, “I’d like your permission to go on trying.”

“You have it,” said her father. “Will you and Powers dine with me?”

“No,” said Brett. “Speaking as candidate to be your son-in-law, you cannot afford to give us dinner; and in the same way I cannot afford to buy dinner for you and Powers. So Powers will have to be host and pay for everything. I shall explain it to him…. But look here, sir, are you really up against it?”

To Brett’s consternation, Callender suddenly buried his face in his hands and groaned aloud.

“Don’t,” said Brett; “some one’s coming.”

Callender recovered his usual poise with a great effort. But no one came.

“As far as my wishes go, sir,” said Brett, “I’m your son. You never had a son, did you? If you had a son, and if he were young and resilient, you’d talk to him and explain to him, and in that way, perhaps, you’d get to see things so clearly in your own mind that you’d be able to think a way out. Why don’t you talk to me as if I were your son? You see I want to be so very much, and that’s half the battle.”

Callender often joked about his affairs, but he never talked about them. Now, however, he looked for a moment keenly into the young man’s frank and intelligent face, hesitated, and then, with a grave and courtly bow, he waved his hand toward two deep chairs that stood in the corner of the room half facing each other, as if they themselves were engaged in conversation.