Adams sighed, and stared at the floor, irresolute. “Well, I'll be getting along back home then, I guess, Charley. So you're sure you couldn't tell anything what he might have thought about it, then?”
“Not a thing in the world. I've told you all I know, Virg.”
“I guess so, I guess so,” Adams said, mournfully. “I feel mighty obliged to you, Charley Lohr; mighty obliged. Good-night to you.” And he departed, sighing in perplexity.
On his way home, preoccupied with many thoughts, he walked so slowly that once or twice he stopped and stood motionless for a few moments, without being aware of it; and when he reached the juncture of the sidewalk with the short brick path that led to his own front door, he stopped again, and stood for more than a minute. “Ah, I wish I knew,” he whispered, plaintively. “I do wish I knew what he thought about it.”
He was roused by a laugh that came lightly from the little veranda near by. “Papa!” Alice called gaily. “What are you standing there muttering to yourself about?”
“Oh, are you there, dearie?” he said, and came up the path. A tall figure rose from a chair on the veranda.
“Papa, this is Mr. Russell.”
The two men shook hands, Adams saying, “Pleased to make your acquaintance,” as they looked at each other in the faint light diffused through the opaque glass in the upper part of the door. Adams's impression was of a strong and tall young man, fashionable but gentle; and Russell's was of a dried, little old business man with a grizzled moustache, worried bright eyes, shapeless dark clothes, and a homely manner.
“Nice evening,” Adams said further, as their hands parted. “Nice time o' year it is, but we don't always have as good weather as this; that's the trouble of it. Well——” He went to the door. “Well—I bid you good evening,” he said, and retired within the house.
Alice laughed. “He's the old-fashionedest man in town, I suppose and frightfully impressed with you, I could see!”