He was surprised to discover Tom Meredith the same foxy-faced boy he had left in Doctor Allhop's drugstore... it seemed to Anthony that an incalculable time had passed since the breaking of the bottles of perfume; he felt himself to be infinitely changed, older, and the other his junior by decades of experience and a vast accumulation of worldly knowledge, contact with men, women, and events. Tom's raiment did not seem so princely as it had aforetime; the ruby reputed to be the gift of a married woman, was obviously meretricious, the gold timepiece merely commonplace. But Anthony was unaffectedly glad to see him, to discuss homely, familiar topics, repeat affectionately the names of favorite localities, persons.
“I'm in a bonding house here,” Tom explained upon Anthony's query. “Nothing in Ellerton for me. What are you doing?”
“Nothing, until to-morrow, when I think I'll get something in one of the garages.” He thrust his hands negligently into his pockets, and came in contact with his father's forgotten letter. He opened it, gazing curiously at the words: “My dear Son,” when Tom, with an exclamation, bent and recovered a piece of yellow paper that had fallen from the envelope. “Is this all you think of these?” he demanded, placing a fifty dollar bill upon the table.
Anthony read the letter with growing incredulous wonder and joy. He looked up with burning cheeks at his companion. “Remember old Mrs. Bosbyshell?” he questioned in an eager voice. “I used to carry wood, do odd jobs, for her: well, she's dead, and left me—what do you think!—father says about forty-seven thousand dollars. It's there, waiting for me, in Ellerton.”
Suddenly he forgot Thomas Meredith, the glittering saloon, the diminishing perspective of Susannas—he saw Eliza smiling at him out of the dusk, with her arms full of white lilacs. With an unsteady pounding of his heart, a tightening of the throat, he realized that, miraculously, the happiness which he had imagined so far removed in the uncertain future had been brought to him now, to the immediate present. He could take a train at once and go to her. The waiting was over. The immeasurable joy that flooded him deepened to a great chord of happiness that vibrated highly through him. He folded the letter gravely, thoughtfully. It was but a few hours to Ellerton by train, he knew, but he doubted the possibility of a night connection to that sequestered town. He would go in the morning.
“Thomas,” he declared, “I am about to purchase you the best dinner that champagne can shoot into your debased middle. Oh, no, not here, but in a real place where you can catch your own fish and shoot a pheasant out of a painted tree.”
Thus pleasantly apostrophized that individual led Anthony to the Della Robbia room of an elaborate hostelry, where they studied the carte de jour amid pink tiling and porphyry. There was a rosy flush of shaded lights over snowy linen in the long, high chamber, the subdued passage of waiters like silhouettes, low laughter, and a throbbing strain of violins falling from a balcony above their heads. They pondered nonchalantly the strange names, elaborate sauces; but were finally launched upon suave cocktails and clams. Anthony settled back into a glow of well-being, of the tranquillity that precedes an expected, secure joy. He saluted the champagne bucket by the table; when, suddenly, the necessity to speak of Eliza overcame him, he wished to hear her name pronounced by other lips... perhaps he would tell Tom all; he was the best of fellows....
“Are the Dreens home?” he asked negligently. “Have you seen Eliza Dreen about—you know with that soft, shiny hair?”
Thomas Meredith directed at him a glance of careless surprise. “Why,” he answered, “I thought you knew; it seemed to me she died before you left. Anyhow, it was about the same time, it must have been the next week. Pneumonia. This soup's great, Anthony.”