He placed a chair where the woman could observe its occupant, without being drawn of necessity into anything that might be said. The man himself drew up another chair, on which he sat sidewise in an easy posture close to Tom. Tom liked him. He liked his face, his voice, his manner, the something friendly and sympathetic he recalled from the earlier meetings. Whether this were his father or not, he would have no difficulty in meeting him at any time on intimate and confidential terms.
"My wife and I wanted to see you," he began, simply, "in order to thank you for what you've done for Tad."
Tom was embarrassed. "Oh, that wasn't anything. I just happened—"
"The Dean has told me all about it. He says that Tad has given him no trouble since. Before that he'd given a good deal. I wish I could tell you how grateful we are, especially as things are turning out, with a war hanging over us."
Tom saw an opportunity of speaking without sentiment. "That's what I thought. It seemed to me a pity that good fighting stuff should be lost just through—through too much skylarking."
"Yes, it would have been. Tad has good fighting stuff."
There was a catch of the woman's breath. Tom recalled the staccato nervousness of their first brief meeting in Gore Hall. He wished they hadn't brought him there. They were strangers to him; he was a stranger to them. Whatever link might have been between him and them in the past, there was no link now. It would be a mistake to try to forge one.
But in on this thought the man broke gently.
"I wonder if you'd mind telling us all about yourself that you know? I presume that you understand why I'm asking you."
"Yes, sir, I do; but I don't think I can help you much."