Generations ago Dysarts had been shot very conventionally at ten paces owing to this same debonair resistlessness; Dysarts had slipped into and out of all sorts of unsavoury messes on account of this fatal family failing; some had been neatly winged, some thrust through; some, in a more sordid age, permitted counsel of ability to explain to a jury how guiltless a careless gentleman could be under the most unfortunate and extenuating appearances.
The son stood in his wet clothes, haggard, lined, ghastly in contrast to the startling red of his lips, looking at his smirking father: then he leaned over and touched a bell.
"Who was it who called on Mrs.Dysart ?" he asked, as a servant appeared.
"Miss Quest, sir," said the man, accepting the cue with stolid philosophy.
"Did Miss Quest leave any message ?" "Yes, sir: Miss Quest desired _Mrs._ Dysart to telephone her on _Mrs._ Dysart's return from--the country, sir--it being a matter of very great importance." "Thank you." "Thank _you_, sir." The servant withdrew; the son stood gazing into the hallway.

Behind him his father mumbled and muttered and chuckled to himself in his easy-chair by the fire! "Te-he! They are all alike, the Dysarts--oh, yes, all alike! And now it's that young dog--Jack!--te-he!--yes, it's Jack, now! But he's a good son, my boy Jack; he's a good son to me and he's all Dysart, all Dysart; bon chien chasse de race!--te-he! Oui, ma fois!--bon chien chasse de race.".