“That's why Bill picked him out,” said Tommy. He felt like adding that he thought Bill considered that the Thompsonian thing to do. Thompson looked at him meditatively.
“What a wonderful thing youth is,” he mused, “and how very wise in its unwisdom.” He nodded to himself. Then: “You let Bill alone. He's saved. To-night at six-thirty. Mrs. Thompson has not yet returned, but you are going to meet her as soon as she does. You might take Bill to La Grange and say I said Bill was to have everything he asks for. Don't bother to dress, Tommy.” Mr. Thompson nodded, a trifle absently it seemed to Tommy, and went into his office. And Tommy wasn't aware that the mixing of his personal affairs with the shop's business made him belong to the company utterly.
After dinner, as they drank their coffee in the library, Thompson asked him:
“Don't you smoke?”
“Not any more.”
“Why not?”
“I gave up smoking when I felt I couldn't afford it. I smoked rather expensive cigarettes.”
“You can afford them now.”
“Well, I don't quite feel that I can; and, anyhow, the craving isn't very strong.”
“Tommy, my idea of happiness would be the conviction that the more I smoked the better I'd feel. Do you mind talking shop here, Tommy?”