So they took the road back. Only the sea and the gulls saw the tender kiss.
The pariah sauntered in at two o'clock that afternoon, just as the family were sitting down to luncheon. He was a revelation. There was nothing shabby about him now. He wore a new suit, spats, a new straw hat, and twirled a light bamboo. There was something jaunty and confident in his air, a bubbling in his eyes; altogether, he was in fine fettle about something. He cast aside his hat and cane with a flourish.
"Aha! just in time," he said. "Another chair, William."
The butler sent a dubious glance at his master; there was the usual curt nod and the frown. So grandpa sat down beside Norah, whose usual effervescence had strangely subsided; he pinched her cheek, and deliberated between the cold ham and chicken.
"A fine day! A beautiful day! A day of days!" he cried, surrendering to the appetitious lure of both meats.
Nobody replied to this outburst of exuberance; nobody had the power to. A strange calm settled over every one. This was altogether a new kind of grandpa. There was nothing timid or hesitant here, nothing meek and humble; neither was there that insufferable self-assurance and arrogance of a disagreeable man. Grandpa's attitude was simply that of an equal, of a man of the world, of one who is confident of the power he holds in reserve; that was all. But for all that, he was a sensation of some magnitude. Carrington was seized with a wild desire to laugh. The truth came to him like an illumination; but he wisely held his peace.
"There is something in the air to-day that renews youth in old age; eh, my son?" with a sly wink at Cavenaugh.
Cavenaugh's expression of wonder began to freeze and remained frozen to the end of the meal. So all the honors of conversation fell to grandpa, who seemed to relish this new privilege.
"Father," said Cavenaugh, holding back his accumulated wrath, "I want to see you in my study."