The man, who remembered Dan, smiled discreetly and conducted him into the little reception room. Then he went away, and Dan, left to the depressing silence of the house, tried to nerve himself for the encounter.
Gerald was upstairs in the library trying to write a letter to his father. He had been home three hours, had lunched all alone in the big dining room, had unpacked his bag, and was now far from happy. It promised to be very lonely there, with only the servants to talk to. There were moments when he heartily wished himself back at school, but he had no intention of returning. His pride wouldn’t allow that. Just now he was trying, in his half-written letter, to persuade his father to let him join him abroad, something he was quite certain his father would not do. He had written a truthful, if somewhat biased, account of the events leading to his flight from school, and all the time he was wondering uneasily what his father would think of him. He was pretty sure his father wouldn’t insist on his returning to Yardley, and he didn’t quite know whether to be glad of this or sorry. If he didn’t go back to school and didn’t join his father abroad, what was to become of him? It wasn’t at all likely that he would be allowed to remain alone here with the servants. The only alternative Gerald could think of was a visit to some distant relations in Virginia. And that—why, that would be worse than school.
He wondered whether Dan had discovered his absence yet; wondered what he would think and do; whether he would be sorry. Gerald accused Dan of being tired of him, and he almost meant it, but he knew well enough that Dan would feel badly about his leaving. Probably there would be a letter from Dan in the morning, thought Gerald, brightening up a little. That was something to look forward to. He was mighty fond of Dan, and if Dan had only not deserted him for Loring and Tom Dyer— But that was all over with now. He had tried to write a note to Dan before leaving, but it had proved a difficult task, and he had finally abandoned it. But he would write this evening. He began to consider what he would say. He would be very dignified in it. Dan must understand that he was no longer a baby, and that when he once made up his mind he stuck to it. Perhaps he would begin the letter “Dear Vinton,” just to show Dan that all was at an end between them. Perhaps, however, Dan might not like that, and would get huffy and not come to see him any more! On second thoughts, he guessed he wouldn’t start it that way. But he would let Dan understand that it would be quite useless for the latter to try and persuade him to return to Yardley. Of course, if Dan cared to write to him now and then, Gerald would be glad to hear what was going on at school, and would reply and tell Dan about the fine times he was having in New York.
Gerald paused there in his thoughts and looked out of the two great, heavily-draped windows. It was a gray afternoon, hinting of snow, and the view of the roofs and chimneys was cheerless and dispiriting. It suddenly came over him that he hated New York and everything in it, and—and yes, he did! He wished like anything that he was back at Yardley!
“Mr. Vinton to see you, Mr. Gerald.”
“What?” cried Gerald, amazed and delighted. “Who, Thomas?”
“Mr. Vinton, sir; Mr. Dan; the young gentleman who—”
Gerald leaped from his chair and started toward the door. Then he remembered. He stopped and went back to his seat at the big, broad-topped table.
“Ask Mr. Vinton to come up here, Thomas,” he said with great dignity.
“Very good, sir,” replied Thomas impassively. But outside in the hall he grinned.