She turned into the door of an office building that was full of theatrical agencies. "Well," she said curtly, "I supposed that you intended, some day, to settle down."
He went back toward his room undepressed by her criticism. Evidently, as Walter Pittsey had said, she was out of her element. She should have remained in Coulton, teaching in her sister's school, if settling down made up her idea of the whole end and object of life.
He hesitated at Madison Square, intending to sit under the trees for a moment and think it all over. But he remembered that he had left the breakfast dishes unwashed on the table; and it had been his turn, that morning, to wash up. He continued down Fifth Avenue, in the scant shade of mid-day, tired by the heat and excitement of a crowded morning.
As he ascended the stairs to his rooms, Bert Pittsey called over the railing: "Is that you, Don?"
"Yes. What is it?" He supposed that Pittsey wished him to do some shopping for luncheon, and he waited on the step. Hearing no reply, he continued his ascent; and as he approached the landing on which their apartment opened, Pittsey came out—his hat in his hand—and whispered as he escaped past him: "Your father's in there. Someone's written him that you're going on the stage."
Don's irresolution carried him to the doorway. His father was sitting beside the dining-table; it was covered with a disorder of stale food and dirty dishes; and he looked strangely out of place and as if degraded
