“I wasn’t reproaching you,” said Elaine with a clear glance.
“He’s a hard little nut, the kid,” said Joe, smiling at some recollection.
“So he ought to be at six,” said Elaine quickly.
“I shouldn’t think you’d get much literature to stick.”
“Don’t expect to. Taswell’s much more than a mere literary person. He’s an athlete. He has a very masculine point of view.”
“A gentleman, too,” said Joe agreeably. “Damned handsome fellow!”
“Oh yes,” said Elaine indifferently. “. . . I like him very much,” she went on. “He pockets his weekly wage, and keeps his head up. I have him to lunch with me sometimes. He’s interested in so many things. We have good talks.”
“I know just what you mean,” said Joe. “Disgusting, isn’t it? the way nearly everybody licks our boots. Takes all the fun out of life. I’d like to be better acquainted with this independent young man.”
Elaine offered no comment.
There was a knock on the door; and in response to Elaine’s summons, the one whom they had been discussing entered. A young man who brought with him into everyday affairs, a sharp reminder of that which is timeless. He was quite unconscious of it. A wary and a courteous young man, unabashed in Elaine’s boudoir, yet conveying an intimation that his astuteness was far from being the whole of him. The handsome older man received him all smiles; Elaine’s half glance acknowledged his good looks, but was annihilating in its impersonal quality.