“Too much work to think,” yawned dad.
“But you are thinking.” Resentfully.
“Have it your own way.”
Bob squared his shoulders. “You want to know really why I’m going to Tonkton?”
“Have I ever tried to force your confidences, my son?”
“I’m going because I’ve got to. I can’t help myself.”
“Of course,” said dad. “Ta! ta! Enjoy yourself. See you in three weeks.”
“Three—!” But Bob didn’t finish. What was the use? Dad thought he was going to Tonkton because Miss Gerald might be there.
As a matter of fact Bob’s one great wish now was that she wouldn’t be there. He wanted, and yet didn’t want, to see her. What had he to hope now? Why, he didn’t have a son, or not enough of them to count. He was to all practical intents and purposes a pauper. Dad’s “going broke” had changed his whole life. He had been reared in the lap of luxury, a pampered son. He had never dreamed of being otherwise. And considering himself a favored child of fortune, he had even dared entertain the delirious hope of winning her—her, the goddess of his dreams.
But hope now was gone. Regrets were useless. He could no longer conceive himself in the role of suitor. Why, there were few girls in the whole land so overburdened with “rocks”—as Dickie called them! If only she didn’t have those rocks—or stocks! “Impecunious Gwendoline!” How well that would go with “Impecunious Bob!” If only her trustees would hit the toboggan, the way dad did! But trustees don’t go tobogganing. They eschew the smooth and slippery. They speculate in government bonds and things that fluctuate about a point or so a century. No chance for quick action there! On the contrary, the trustees were probably making those millions grow. Bob heaved a sigh. Then he took something white from his pocket and gazed at two words, ardently yet dubiously.