"Yes, dear. Wait a minute, Olly. Just suppose," his mother said, looking at him seriously over her glasses, "just suppose that things did go wrong, and that after all she married Sir John Barclay."
He stood still, put his hand on the door, an almost grotesque figure in his faded pink and white striped flannel pyjamas.
"I don't know," he said slowly. "It would be pretty bad, mother; worse than you think." After a pause he shook his head and opened the door wide. "It isn't going to happen," he said, "and I'm not going to weaken myself by looking at the bad side of things." Then he went out and she heard his door close.
An hour later, as Oliver went downstairs to breakfast, the telephone bell rang and, as he was expecting a call from the office, he answered it. The thing buzzed for a minute and then he heard a voice say, "Is—is that Mr. Catherwood's house?"
Putting his hand over the receiver and turning his head well away, the young man answered in a loud and fervid whisper, "Yes, you blessed lamb, you little darling devil, it is Mr. Catherwood's house!" Then he took his hand away and said in an affected voice, "Yes, moddom."
"I have tried three Catherwoods in the book," continued the voice, struggling witty nervous hesitation. "I don't know the Christian name of the one I am looking for, but is there a Mr. Wick staying there?"
"Yes, moddom."
"Will you please call him to the phone. Tell him it's Miss Griselda—I mean Miss Walbridge—Bridge—B-r-i-d-g-e."
Dancing with joy, his voice perfectly steady, he pretended to misunderstand her. "Miss Burbridge, moddom?"
"No, no—oh," and a little troubled sigh chased the laughter from his face.