She smiled. “No, not on account of your temper. I think,” she explained, grave now, “it was the—the serenity you have achieved, Stacey dear.”
He drew away to stare at her, but before he could speak the door of the room opened and Mr. Carroll entered, then paused abruptly.
Catherine saw him first and hurried to his side, clasping his hand in both of hers and laying her head against his shoulder.
Mr. Carroll reached out his other hand to grasp Stacey’s and gazed at his son with shining eyes.
“Oh, Mr. Carroll, do you mind?” Catherine cried softly.
“Mind, my dear!” he replied. “Isn’t it exactly what I’ve hoped for?” And he bent over and kissed her cheek, then made her sit down beside him on the divan, while Stacey stood a little way off, looking at them.
“Er—where are you thinking of living?” Mr. Carroll asked presently in a carefully matter-of-fact voice, while he slowly clipped off the end of a cigar.
Stacey flashed a swift questioning glance at Catherine. “Why,” he remarked then deliberately, “what with the scarcity of houses and all, we were rather thinking of staying on here.”
“Well,” said Mr. Carroll, “if you will, you will, I suppose.” But he had paused to light his cigar before speaking, and it had taken him rather longer than usual.
THE END.