"I see. I didn't know I was discussing a young man you knew well enough to offer a position to. May I ask if he accepted it?" "He did not," admitted Harrison Cressy grimly.
"Turned it down, eh?" The school man looked interested.
"Turned it down, man? He made the proposition look flatter than a last year's pan-cake and it was a mighty good proposition. At least I thought it was," the magnate added with a faint grin remembering all that went with that proposition.
Robert Caldwell smiled. He rather liked the idea of one of his boys making a proposition of millionaire Cressy's look like a last year's pan-cake. It was what he would have expected of Phil Lambert.
"I am sorry for you, Mr. Cressy," he said. "But I am glad for Dunbury.
Philip is the kind we need right here."
"He is the kind we need right everywhere," grunted Mr. Cressy. "Only we can't get 'em. They aren't for sale."
"No," agreed Robert Caldwell. "They are not for sale. Ah, the Boston train must be in. There is the stage."
Mr. Cressy allowed his eyes to stray idly to the arriving bus and the descending passengers.
Suddenly he stiffened.
"Good Lord!" he ejaculated, an exclamation called forth by the fact that the last person to alight from the bus was a slim young person in a trim, tailored, navy blue suit and a tiny black velvet toque whose air bespoke Paris, a person with eyes which were precisely the color of violets which grow in the deepest woods.