She knew what was in his mind, but compassion overcame her resentment, because there was suffering in his voice and in his eyes. She smiled on him forgivingly, and did not withdraw the hand he took again.
“New York’s an evil place,” he urged. “Who are these friends of yours?” and he looked at her accusingly.
“Why, they are tremendously nice people, Howard,” she told him, forgiving him again because he did not understand. “Lucile is the pretty cousin about whom I wrote you, Ted is her husband, and the others are their friends.”
“I don’t like them,” he rather sternly said. “They are not fit company for you. They see no sacredness in marriage, with their open flirting.”
“Why, Howard, that’s only a joke. Ted and Lucile are exceptionally devoted to each other.” She turned and studied him seriously. Was he smaller of stature than he had seemed back home, or what was it?
They still were standing in the hall, and the front door opened.
“Brought you a prodigal,” hailed Uncle Jim, slipping his latchkey in his pocket as he held the door open for the prodigal in question. “Hello, Clemmens. When did you blow in?” and he advanced to shake hands.
Gail was watching the doorway. Some one outside was vigorously stamping his feet. The prodigal came in, and proved to be Allison, buoyant of step, sparkling of eye, firm of jaw, and ruddy from the night wind. Smiling with the sureness of welcome, he came eagerly up to Gail, and took her hand, retaining it until she felt compelled to withdraw it, recognising again that thrill. The barest trace of a flush came into her cheeks, and paled again.
“Allison, meet one of Chubsy’s friends from home,” called Uncle Jim. “Mr. Allison, Mr. Clemmens.”
As the two shook hands, Gail turned again to the young man from back home. Yes, he had grown smaller.