“H’m!” said Phil reflectively. “Also,” he added, after a pause, “I dare say this matter of personal adaptation to the individual accounts for the emptiness of talk—and thought—in a group. The adaptation is necessarily lacking.”
Stacey smiled faintly. “Always thorough, Phil, aren’t you?” he observed. He had a strange shadowy sense of being back in his old pre-war relationship to Phil. There was pleasure in this for Stacey, but melancholy also, since he knew it was an illusion. He continued to gaze in through the window at his father and Catherine.
Mr. Carroll was leaning forward in his chair, with a certain courtliness, and smiling; Catherine’s face in the light from the electric lamp appeared mobile and full of expression. They seemed to be talking freely.
“I never saw Catherine so bold before,” Stacey remarked finally, turning away. “I swear I’m jealous.”
“Oh,” Phil returned quietly, “she’s always shyer with you than with any one else.”
“Is she? That’s silly. Now what do you suppose they’re talking about?” asked Stacey idly.
Philip Blair smiled. “You, no doubt.”
“Horrid thought! Come on! Let’s go in.”
“We were watching you from outside the window,” he announced maliciously, as they reëntered the room. Catherine flushed. “Phil said—”
“Oh, shut up, Stacey!” Phil interrupted. “I won’t have my wife teased. By the way, your friend, Mrs. Latimer, has been here a number of times.”