"No, thank you," said the son. "I've dropped that."

"Ah, is that so?" The father began to feel about on the
table for matches, in the purblind fashion of elderly men.
His son rose, lighted one, and handed it to him.
"Well,--oh, thank you, Tom!--I believe some statisticians
prove that if you will give up smoking you can dress
very well on the money your tobacco costs, even if you
haven't got an indulgent parent. But I'm too old to try.
Though, I confess, I should rather like the clothes.
Whom did you find at the club?"

"There were a lot of fellows there," said young Corey,
watching the accomplished fumigation of his father in an
absent way.

"It's astonishing what a hardy breed the young club-men are,"
observed his father. "All summer through, in weather
that sends the sturdiest female flying to the sea-shore,
you find the clubs filled with young men, who don't seem
to mind the heat in the least."

"Boston isn't a bad place, at the worst, in summer,"
said the son, declining to take up the matter in its
ironical shape.

"I dare say it isn't, compared with Texas," returned the
father, smoking tranquilly on. "But I don't suppose
you find many of your friends in town outside of the club."