“Do tell us about it,” Mrs. Witherby interjected. “I am simply bored with these cards.”
“Mr. Falcon will arrive at Trenton Waters on the morning train, and I am sure he will prefer to ramble across the fields to Roseborough. I suppose I am a little old-fashioned, but I wished him to feel that all the town was welcoming him home—not only the widow of his old professor.” She sighed and smiled.
“Dear Mrs. Lee,” Mrs. Witherby exclaimed, effusively. “That is so like you.”
Encouraged by this responsiveness, Mrs. Lee continued more hopefully:
“You see, there was a good deal of comment when Jack left college so abruptly. There had just come the opportunity, through Professor Lee, to teach languages—for which Jack had a rare gift—and certain classes in literature also. That was quite an honour for a young man of twenty-one. And to think he threw it all away just to go out into the world and see what was to be seen!”
“Well, well,” Mr. Andrews said, as she paused; “I’d never have done that. But, then, it isn’t my nature.”
“Roseborough was inclined to be indignant,” Mrs. Lee admitted. “But my husband felt—and said openly—that there might be wisdom in his wandering. Indeed he was the only one who stood the boy’s friend in the matter. Sixteen years ago. Ah, me!” She bent over her lace, because her eyes were wet.
The Judge looked over the edge of his paper again.
“I can’t place him. Falcon, do you say?”
“Yes, Jack Falcon.”