The meaning of Roger’s quizzical smile escaped him.
XVII
RICHMOND TRIES TO MAKE PEACE
It would hardly have been possible for anyone to hold crow in lower esteem as a repast than did Daniel Richmond; and, long though his career and many its ups and downs, seldom had he been called upon to eat it. But on those few occasions he had eaten like the wise man he was—as if it were a delicacy, as if it were his favorite dish; as if he were afraid some one would snatch away his portion should he linger over it. The vicissitudes of fortune had now swung crow round to him once more. He lost no time in setting about dispatching it.
At ten the next morning, when Beatrice descended to the parlor of the Wolcott in response to her father’s name brought up to her in his hasty scrawl on one of the hotel’s blank cards, she was greeted effusively. He did not give her a chance to be uppish and distant. He met her in the door, took her in his arms and kissed her fondly.
“It’s been an age since I saw you,” cried he, twinkling with good humor. “I’m amazed to find you still young.”
She was quite taken aback, but succeeded in concealing it and in accepting his suggestion as to the dominant note of what she had assumed would be a trying interview. “How’s mother—and the boys?” inquired she. “Much changed?”
“All well. Your mother holds together wonderfully.”
There was no jest, however, but a moving earnestness in his eyes as they fixed upon her a hungry, devouring expression. And her own look at him strongly suggested the presence of a veil of tears. Neither had until now realized how much they cared about each other, how strong was the sympathy through similarity of character. He abruptly seized her and kissed her again, his fingers trembling as he passed them over her yellow hair. “I’m mighty glad to see you,” said he. “Mighty glad.”
“And I you,” she replied, taking his hand and giving it an affectionate squeeze. And then she kissed him and openly wiped away her tears.
