"Will you let me come to see your mother some time?"
Lena's heart beat fast with mingled fear and hope, but all Dick saw was
a startled and sweet surprise.
"I should be almost ashamed to have you come," she said with a soft
blush and a look of shy invitation. "We are so poor and we live in such
a shabby place."
"If your shabbiness comes because of your father's sacrifice for his
country it is something to be proud of," Dick answered.
Through Lena's mind there passed a swift memory of quarrels and
bickerings, of daily smallnesses, which were her chief recollection of
her father. She looked frankly up into Dick's face.
"Yes," she said. "That ought to make it easy to bear. Now I must not
talk about myself any more. What did you tell me about that funny old
book?"
"And I may come to see you and your mother?" Dick persisted.
"If you do not forget us to-morrow,"--Lena glanced at him out of the
corner of her eyes in a way calculated to make him remember.
"I shan't forget," said Dick.
He took out a small note-book and wrote down the address she gave him.
And she gave herself a little shake and pulled out a much larger
note-book. "I ought not to waste my time and yours this way, but, you
see, I'm not much of a business woman. I sometimes forget altogether."
Dick thought her very preposterous and charming as she set to work with
an air of severity; and so she was--the last thing on earth made to do
serious work. They leaned together over one treasure after another, in
that electric nearness that moves youth so easily, and sends a tingling
sensation up the backbone.
When she suddenly rose, her cheeks were pinker and more transparent than
ever, and her eyes softer and dreamier.
"Let me take you home in the motor," said Dick.
"Dear me, no," Lena exclaimed. "I'm afraid you think me entirely too
informal already. I--I'm so stupid and impulsive. I'm always doing wrong
things and not thinking till afterward. Good-by, and thank you, Mr.
Percival."
After he had bowed her out, Dick plunged into a big chair and spent a
few moments in analyzing his own character. He perceived that in some
ways he differed from most of his friends. Now Ellery and Madeline and
most of the others lived along certain conventional lines, with certain
fixed interests and habits. That kind of existence would be intolerable
to him. He liked to star his days with all kinds of colored incidents
that had no particular relation to his main work. He liked to run down
every by-path, explore it a bit, and then come back to the highway.
Those small excursions were apt to take a man into leafy dells where
there were ferns and flowers too shy to fringe the dusty plodding
thoroughfare. Dick liked that figure. It revealed to him a certain
lightness of heart and poetry in himself that distinguished him from the
prosy grubbers. This sprinkling of life with episodes was like a little
tonic. It kept him vivid and alive.