“I'm afraid I'm not subtle, my dear. Well, ring for Adams, and—you think he wouldn't care for the medal?”
“I think he'd love it. He'd probably think some king gave it to you. I'm sure he believes that you and grandfather habitually hobnob with kings.” She turned to go out. “He doesn't approve of kings.”
“You are making me extremely uneasy,” was her father's shot. “I only hope I acquit myself well.”
“Hurry, then. He is sure to be exactly on the hour.” Howard was still smiling slightly to himself when, a half-hour later, he descended the staircase. But he had some difficulty first in reconciling his preconceived idea of Willy with the tall young man, with the faint unevenness of step, who responded to his greeting so calmly and so easily. “We are always glad to see any of Lily's friends.”
“It is very good of you to let me come, sir.”
Why, the girl was blind. This was a man, a fine, up-standing fellow, with a clean-cut, sensitive face, and honest, almost beautiful eyes. How did women judge men, anyhow?
And, try as he would, Howard Cardew could find no fault with Willy Cameron that night. He tried him out on a number of things. In religion, for instance, he was orthodox, although he felt that the church had not come up fully during the war.
“Religion isn't a matter only of churches any more,” said Mr. Cameron. “It has to go out into the streets, I think, sir. It's a-well, Christ left the tabernacle, you remember.”
That was all right. Howard felt that himself sometimes. He was a vestryman at Saint Peter's, and although he felt very devout during the service, especially during the offertory, when the music filled the fine old building, he was often conscious that he shed his spirituality at the door, when he glanced at the sky to see what were the prospects for an afternoon's golf.
In politics Willy Cameron was less satisfactory.