"You are very dear to feel about me the way you do" she said, rather
rapidly. "I appreciate your telling me. And if you're chilly when you
get home, you'd better take some camphor."
He saw her in, hat in hand, and then turned and stalked up the street.
Camphor, indeed! But so stubborn was hope in his young heart that before
he had climbed the hill he was finding comfort in her thought for him.
Mrs. Sayre had been away for a week, visiting in Michigan, and he had
not expected her for a day or so. To his surprise he found her on the
terrace, wrapped in furs, and evidently waiting for him.
"I wasn't enjoying it," she explained, when he had kissed her. "It's
a summer place, not heated to amount to anything, and when it turned
cold--where have you been to-night?"
"Dined at the Wards', and then took Elizabeth home."
"How is she?"
"She's all right."
"And there's no news?"
He knew her very well, and he saw then that she was laboring under
suppressed excitement.
"What's the matter, mother? You're worried about something, aren't you?"
"I have something to tell you. We'd better go inside." He followed her
in, unexcited and half smiling. Her world was a small one, of minor
domestic difficulties, of not unfriendly gossip, of occasional money
problems, investments and what not. He had seen her hands tremble over a
matter of a poorly served dinner. So he went into the house, closed the
terrace window and followed her to the library. When she closed the door
he recognized her old tactics when the servants were in question.
"Well?" he inquired. "I suppose--" Then he saw her face. "Sorry, mother.
What's the trouble?"
"Wallie, I saw Dick Livingstone in Chicago."