"Charley Somerville!" Evelyn flamed to the defense of her friend's profession. "At least Mr. Carroll ain't—isn't—a college freshman."
"I'm a sophomore," asserted Charley languidly. "Passed all of my exams."
"Anyway," snapped Evelyn, "he ain't any kid!"
For a time the atmosphere was strained. Then Carroll recalled a particularly good college joke he knew and he told it well. After which Evelyn explained to Charley that Mr. Carroll was the wonderfulest piano player in the world and David Carroll, detective, strummed out several popular airs while the youngsters danced.
Horrible as the situation was, it appealed irresistibly to his sense of humor. He found himself almost enjoying it. And he worked carefully. Eventually his patience was rewarded. He succeeded in getting them together on a lounge with a photograph album between them. And then, very quietly and positively, and with a brief—"Excuse me for a moment," he walked through the hall and into the living room.
Lawrence and his wife were at opposite sides of the library table. At sight of Carroll, Lawrence laid down his paper and rose to his feet.
"Well?" he inquired inhospitably.
Carroll laughed lightly. "It got too much for me. Too much youth. I dropped in here for a chat with you folks."
"I didn't understand that you had come to call on us," said
Lawrence coldly.
"Why, I didn't—"