Sitting at the supper table, he grimly related his experiences to the
distressed Bingles.

"I went first to Angela's, Tom," he said, scowling at the centre-
piece. "Angela married that Mortimer fellow in Sixty-first Street, you
know--Clarence Mortimer's son. Ever seen their home? Well, the butler
told me to go around to the rear entrance. I gave him my card and told
him to take it up to MY DAUGHTER. I had a fellow in a drug-store write
my name neatly on some blank cards, Mary. The butler threatened to
call the police. He thought I was crazy. But just then old Clarence
Mortimer came up the steps. It seems that he is living with his son,
having lost all of his money a few years ago. He recognised me at
once, and I knew by the way he shook hands with me that he has been
leading a dog's life ever since he went broke. He said he'd speak to
Angela--and he did. I waited in the hall downstairs. Old Clarence
didn't have the courage to come back himself. A footman brought down
word that Mrs. Mortimer could not see Mr. Hooper. She was not at home
to Mr. Hooper, and--never would be. That was what her servant was
obliged to tell me. So I went away. Then I tried Elizabeth. She lives
in one of those fifteen thousand dollar a year apartments on Park
Avenue. She has three lovely children. They are my grand-children, you
know, Tom. I saw them in the automobile as I came out of the building
and went my way after Elizabeth Bransone had told me to my face--I
managed to get in to see her--had told me that I was a sight, a
disgrace, that she couldn't bear to look at me, and that I had better
clear out before her husband came in. My own daughter, Tom, my own
flesh and blood. She informed me that provision would be made for me,
but she made it very plain--damnably plain--that I was never to bother
her again. So I went away from Elizabeth's. There was only one of 'em
left, and I hated to tackle him worse than either of the girls. But I