“You will remember that you have made very real friends here in a very short time, won’t you?” she pleaded. “My mother and myself.”
“Thank you,” said Paul.
Yet another shock was waiting for him in Colonel Vanderfelt’s house. For as he entered the drawing room three-quarters of an hour later, a tall man lifted himself with an effort from an easy chair and with the help of a stick limped across the room towards him.
“This is my husband,” said Mrs. Vanderfelt, and before Paul could check his tongue, the cry had sprung from his lips:
“The man with the medals!”
The older man’s eyes flashed with a sudden anger. Mrs. Vanderfelt gasped and flushed red. Phyllis took a step forward. All had a look as if they had suffered some bitter and intolerable insult.
Paul quickly explained. “My father and I crossed you one night a long time ago when you were coming from a banquet at the Guildhall. You called to my father. I was a child, and I always remembered you as the man with the medals. The phrase jumped out when I saw you again.”
The fire died out of Colonel Vanderfelt’s eyes. A look of pity sheathed them.
“We will talk of all these things after dinner,” he said gently, and his hand clasped the youth’s arm. “Let us go in now.”