“But here I am twenty-five years old—”
“Dick,” she interrupted with some concern, “I don’t want to see you change. She would not wish to see you change. You’ll paint good pictures some day. Promise me you’ll not say anything to your father about coming into his business. Promise that to me and—to her.”
“Why are you so serious about it?” he asked.
“It is a serious matter. Will you promise?”
“Yes.”
“The world is changing for you, Dick,” she hurried on, “and the thing to do now is to hold fast to your true self. Don’t let the world change you.”
He was soon off again on another panegyric. She listened with her face grown tender but with that same far away look in her eyes. So they sat until the evening shadows began to creep in and she bethought herself of her husband.
“Be good to him, Dick,” she pleaded. “He has missed you. I think he’s changed some in this last week. I heard him say once that he might go back to the old farm for a visit.”
“Great,” exclaimed Barnes. “If we can keep that idea in his head, we’ll make a man of him yet.”
“Dick!”