“They've been made a lot of promises. They may be out of hand, you know.”
While Howard was hastily dressing, Willy Cameron waited below. He caught a glimpse of himself in the big mirror and looked away. His face was drawn and haggard, his eyes hollow and his collar a wilted string. He was dusty and shabby, too, and to Lily, coming down the staircase, he looked almost ill.
Lily was in a soft negligee garment, her bare feet thrust into slippers, but she was too anxious to be self-conscious.
“Willy,” she said, “there is trouble after all?”
“Not in the city. Things are not so quiet up the river.”
She placed a hand on his arm.
“Are you and father going up the river?”
He explained, after a momentary hesitation. “It may crystallize into something, or it may not,” he finished.
“You think it will, don't you?”
“It will be nothing more, at the worst, than rioting.”