For the first time she saw a flicker of emotion in his face. He set down his glass, and looked at her with eyes troubled by that gleam of feeling, almost distress.
"Why did you do that?" he asked abruptly.
"Why, James was named after my father, you see," Mary explained. "So it was only right that the second boy should be named after you. It's a matter of family feeling, it always has been so in my family. Our youngest boy is named for my grandfather."
"Family feeling," he repeated, mechanically. "Named after me.... So there's another Timothy Carlin! I never expected it. Well, I hope—" he stopped short, and after a moment took up his glass and drained it. "I appreciate your remembering me, though I didn't expect it in the least. I—I am touched by it. I should like to see the boys, and especially my—namesake." His voice was a little uneven.
"You will see them tomorrow.... But now, it's late, you must be tired. Shall I show you to your room?"
He followed in silence. Putting out the lights as she went, she led the way through the lofty entrance-hall, up the thickly-carpeted stairs, into the best spare-room, ready as always for a guest, since Laurence often brought one unexpected. Mary lighted the room, and the old man stood gazing round with a deprecating smile. It was a big room, with high ceiling, furnished rather elaborately with carved black walnut, enormous, heavy pieces.
"It's much too grand for me," he said, humorously. "I shall rattle around here like a dried kernel in a shell.... However, I thank you for your hospitality."
"Isn't there something I can get for you, something you need?"
"No, thank you, my dear, I don't need anything," said the old man, with his former manner of gentle cool composure.