The boy was faintly impressed by his grandfather's attentions; he felt that he was welcome, which gave him a vague sort of pleasure. On the porch, in the hot dusk, Benjamin Wright talked; once or twice, apropos of nothing, he quoted some noble stanza, apparently for the joy of the rolling numbers. The fact was, he was full of happiness at his grandson's return, but he had had so little experience in happiness that he did not know how to express it. He asked a good many questions, and received apathetic answers.
"Have you got any notes of the drama?"
"No, sir."
"Doggone your picter!—
"'Then sing, ye birds, sing, sing a joyous song,
And let the young lambs bound
As to the tabor's sound!"
So you made up your mind to come home?"
"I had to come back," Sam said.
There was a pause. Benjamin Wright was reminding himself that in handling a boy, one must be careful not to Say the wrong thing; one must express one's self with reserve and delicacy; one must weigh one's words—boys were such jackasses.
"Well;" he said, "got over your fool falling in love with a female old enough to be your mother?"
Sam looked at him.