DeGolyer was once tempted to tell Richmond and McGlenn that he was feeling his way through a part that had been put upon him, but with this impulse came a restraining thought—the play was not yet done. They were at luncheon, and McGlenn had declared that DeGolyer was sometimes strangely inconsistent.
"I admit that I am, John, and with an explanation I could make you stare at me."
"Then let us have the explanation. Man was made to stare as well as to mourn."
"No, not now; but it will come one of these days, though perhaps not directly from me."
"Ah, you have killed a mysterious lion and made a riddle; but where is the honey you found in the carcass? Give us the explanation."
"Not now. But one of these bleak Chicago days you and Richmond will sit in the club, watch the whirling snow and discuss me, and you both will say that you always thought there was something strange about me."
"And we do," McGlenn replied. "Here's a millionaire's son, and he has chosen toil instead of ease. Isn't that an anomaly, and isn't such an anomaly a strange thing? But will the outcome of that vague something cause us to hold you at a cooler length from us—will that 'I told you so' result in your banishment? Shall we send a Roger Williams over the hills?"
"John, what are you trying to get at?" Richmond asked.
McGlenn looked serenely at him. "Have you devoured your usual quota of pickles? If so, writhe in your misery until I have dined."
"I writhe, not with what I have eaten, but at what I see. Is there a more distressing sight than an epicure—or a gourmand, rather—with a ragged purse?"