She mounted the stairs of the theatrical agent’s office with very much less than her usual buoyancy, nor did she find much encouragement in the general appearance of the room into which she was shown. He was heartily thankful for it. He was not addicted to monologue, and the only audible comment he permitted himself at first upon a universe that was evidently anything but satisfactory to him that afternoon, was one compact and entirely unassigned “Damn!” The word must have had some gratifying quality, because he repeated it. "Are you my son? Are you Jack?" "I am," replied Jack. “I am getting to watch all women. I get along with my Mom sometimes, Lucy. ‘Come along. ’—he’s frightfully anti-Mendelian—having it all their own way. “I knew,” she said, in a low despairing tone, “that people would talk.
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