"George, I hate a liar," said Buzzy, but his face glowed with a happy smile.

In the lobby he met his father.

"Where the devil have you been?" demanded Van Pycke, senior. "Damitall, I've wasted half an hour waiting for you."

"I didn't know you were waiting, dad. Why didn't you send in your card?"

"Send in my—why, confound you, Bosworth, I'm a member of this club. Why should I send in—"

"Don't lose your temper, dad. I apologize for keeping you waiting. Don't let me keep you any longer."

Mr. Van Pycke looked his son over very carefully. A pained expression came into his face.

"Bosworth, I am sorry to see you in this condition. It grieves me beyond measure. You have never—"

"It's an awful night, isn't it, dad? Can't I give you a lift in my taxicab? I see you've got on your overcoat and hat." Bosworth was moving toward the clubhouse entrance. The old gentleman resolutely kept pace with him.

"That's just what I meant to ask you," said he, with some celerity. "I—I can't get a cab of any sort for love or money. It's generous—"

"You can't get much of anything for love in these days, dad, except love."

Mr. Van Pycke pondered this while Bosworth got into his coat and hat.

"I am very sorry to see you intox—"

"Dad, I 'm celebrating," said his son, halting just inside the door.

"Celebrating what?"

"My approaching marriage, sir."

Mr. Van Pycke dropped the glove he was pulling on. He went very white, except for his nose. That seemed redder by contrast.

"Not—not a chorus girl?" he stammered, his hand shaking as he raised it to his brow.

"No, dad. Not yet. I expect to marry some one else first. I'll save the other for a rainy day."

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