They left the hall together, and rode straight to her house. Lacking a home of their own, this house furnished an abiding-place for far-flung dreams and precious intimacies.
In her very restfulness he found a spur and a stimulus. Chin cupped in her down-turned fingers, seated in her favorite wicker chair, she mused above him, as he slouched on the rug at her feet.
"You were splendid to-night, boy; you're a cannibal at debating."
"I'd be sick of the whole bloody business," she smiled indulgently, "if it wasn't for you."
"Anyone would do just as well;" a denying finger caressed his hair possessively.
"Am I that unappreciative, Joan of Lauderdale?"
"Now you're poking fun. You don't deserve the taffy."
"It was only taffy?"
"I'm a good cook, you'll have to admit. No; you earned every word. I should think your father would have to be proud of you!"
"The oratorical prodigal ... whose far country is the heaven your slim oxfords print."