A warm flush crimsoned her cheeks,—she glanced appealingly at Jack.
“Oh, it’s no use your looking sweet at that harum-scarum fellow!” went on Durham, with evident enjoyment in his own remarks. “He’s out of the fighting now—can’t play the hero any more—and hasn’t a penny to bless himself with! He’s got to depend on his poor old father! Eh, Jack? His poor old father! What a rascal he is, eh?”
Jack smiled, and looked across the table at his “poor old father” cheerily enough.
“I shall soon get to work,” he said. “The Boches haven’t crippled me, though they tried hard at it. There’s plenty for me to do, and I’ll do it.”
The Philosopher put on his glasses and surveyed him critically.
“I presume you are familiar with the special line of ‘plenty’ on which to spend your energies?” he said. “Is it oil or nuggets?”
Jack laughed gaily.
“Both, perhaps!” he answered. “Dad knows best! He had me trained as an engineer of all sorts—I’m not very good at it, but I know a thing or two. Anyhow I shall soon earn enough to marry on.”
“Oh, you will, will you?” and his father lifted his glass of champagne and waved it towards him. “Well, here’s to your luck, my boy!—and God be thanked I’ve got you back again!”
The earnestness of his words, voice and manner created an emotional pause in the conversation, and Sylvia drank her wine quickly to stop the tears that threatened to fall.