“If I could have five years, even one year, with you, I think I could bear to die; but not now, Pete.”
In the meantime Mr. Lanley, alone on the front seat, for he had left his chauffeur at home, was driving north along the Hudson and saying to himself:
“Sixty-four. Well, I may be able to knock out ten or twelve pretty satisfactory years. On the other hand, might die to-morrow; hope I don’t, though. As long as I can drive a car and everything goes well with Adelaide and this child, I’d be content to live my full time—and a little bit more. Not many men are healthier than I am. Poor Vincent! A good deal more to live for than I have, most people would say; but I don’t know that he enjoys it any more than I do.” Turning his head a little, he shouted over his shoulder to Pete, “Sorry your mother couldn’t come.”
Mathilde made a hasty effort to withdraw her hands; but Wayne, more practical, understanding better the limits put upon a driver, held them tightly as he answered in a civil tone: “Yes, she would have enjoyed this.”
“She must come some other time,” shouted Mr. Lanley, and reflected that it was not always necessary to bring the young people with you.
“You know, he could not possibly have turned enough to see,” Pete whispered reprovingly to Mathilde.
“I suppose not; and yet it seemed so queer to be talking to my grandfather with—”
“You must try and adapt yourself to your environment,” he returned, and put his arm about her.
The cold of the last few days had given place to a thaw. The melting ice in the river was streaked in strange curves, and the bare trees along the straight heights of the Palisades were blurred by a faint bluish mist, out of which white lights and yellow ones peered like eyes.
“Doesn’t it seem cruel to be so happy when Mama and poor Mr. Farron—” Mathilde began.