He strolled into the billiard-room where his host was impatiently awaiting him, and very soon the monotonous click-clack of the billiard balls was the only sound that disturbed the silence.
Some mornings later a little old gentleman in a brown frieze suit called to see the Sentimentalist, who welcomed him with a frank delight to which he was not commonly accustomed.
“It’s because I’m Jack’s father!” he said, inwardly, with a chuckle—and he was right. Jack’s father! That was it! The Sentimentalist had never shown herself to better advantage—her eyes had never sparkled more brightly or her smile been more winning than for this wizened old personage who was reported to be the hardest, most close-fisted curmudgeon alive.
“Well!” he said, after the first ordinary greetings were over. “Jack went off all right—as chirpy as a cricket!”
“Yes? I’m so glad!” murmured the Sentimentalist. “I know he feels he is doing the right thing!”
“Well!” and the ejaculation was repeated again with a strong American drawl. “It may be so! I don’t know! He does what he likes so long as he don’t spend much money—and the army has taken him off my hands for the present, which is all to the good. Boys like fighting, and I s’pose he’ll get some!”
The Sentimentalist said nothing. She had known Jack’s father intermittently for some months, and she was aware that his disposition seemed to be more curious than kindly. And while she kept silence, his small keen eyes studied her critically, and the shadow of a smile lurked under his fuzzy white moustache.
“How is the Papa?” he enquired.
“About the same,” she answered, cheerfully. “Rather gouty, and always busy with his book.”
“Oh! And is the old chap with him still?”