Here was the stereotyped scoundrel with the classical saving trait--the one conventionally inevitable impulse for good shining like a diamond on a muck-heap--his apparently disinterested affection for his father.
"You were very decent to me that day," Dysart said.

"You had something to say to me--but were good enough not to.

I came over to-night to give you a chance to curse me out.

It's the square thing to do." "What do you know about square dealing ?" "Go on." "I have nothing to add." "Then I have if you'll let me." He paused; the other remained silent.
"I've this to say: you are worried sick; I saw that.

What worries you concerns your father.