“Didn’t you get my telegram?” his mother was saying; “why, that’s funny—I sent one from the hotel quite a time ago, ‘Am worried about sore throat will come to see you’—just ten words exactly.”
Then he found himself introducing his three friends to her: Tommy first, Charlie Bolo second, and Bigelow last, and as he pronounced their names slowly and distinctly, he tried to look ahead and discover what he should do next.
On realising that the impassive Tommy was being presented to her, Mrs. Dawson began to extend her hand toward him; but her impulse collapsed for some reason or other and the movement resulted in nothing more definite than the disclosure of her silk mits.
The three men were so completely outside of any calculations she had made before knocking on her son’s door, that she had nothing to say to them just then, so she turned once more to Dickey with frank adoration and said,—
“I was worried about your throat.”
“I suppose, like the rest of us, Mrs. Dawson, you have found out how seriously he objects to the serious,” ventured Charlie Bolo airily. The smile Mrs. Dawson gave him did not lack sweetness, for she had been looking at Dickey; but it was desperately vague, and Bolo felt that he had made a false start.
“They are taking pretty good care of me, don’t you think?” There was something pallid and heroic about Dickey’s playfulness.
“Oh, this college life!” began Mrs. Dawson, forgetfully. She was trying to recollect a clipping she had once made from a newspaper.
“There’s a lack of woman’s sweeping, without doubt,” grumbled Bigelow jocosely—the music books he had been examining had dirtied his hands.
“Richard, what was that piece I cut from the ‘Weekly’ and sent you last year?” Mrs. Dawson sat down in the chair Dickey pushed toward her. It was a heavy chair of dark wood, and gave Tommy a vicious desire to look at the picture on the mantelpiece. Dickey elaborated the little anecdote to which his mother referred and made the most of it—it was nearly dinner time; the fellows would certainly go soon.