"Yes, indeed," said J.M.
"Found the old town in good condition?"
"Excellent!" this with emphasis.
The president saw it all, explaining it competently to himself. "Yes, yes, I see it from here—vacation spent in renewing your youth playing with the children—promised to go back at Christmas, I suppose."
"Oh, yes, of course," said J.M.
"Children cried when you came away, and gave you dotty little things they'd made themselves?"
"Just like that," with a reminiscent smile.
"Well, well," the president got to his feet. "Of course, most natural thing in the world to take an interest in your brothers' and sisters' children."
J.M. did not contradict the president. He never contradicted the presidents. He outlasted them so consistently that it was not necessary. This time he took off his glasses and rubbed them on an awkwardly fashioned chamois spectacle-wiper made for him by little Molly McCartey. He noticed the pattern of the silk in his visitor's necktie and it made him think of one of Rosalie Loyette's designs. He smiled a little.
The president regarded this smiling silence with suspicion. He cocked his eye penetratingly upon his librarian. "But it is very queer, J.M., that as long as I have known you, I never heard that you had any family at all."