Philip Schuyler glanced from his father to Parmelee’s set face, then dropped his eyes.
“Of course not, sir,” he replied. “It was only that I didn’t know but I’d miss you. Such a crowd in town!” he muttered.
“That’s all right, then,” said his father. “And now I want to make you acquainted with a friend of mine. I’ve only had the honor of calling him such for an hour or so; but two persons can become pretty well acquainted in that time, especially over the table,” he added, smiling. “Phil, this is—but, dear me, I don’t know your name!”
“John Parmelee,” answered his host.
“Ah, Phil, this is Mr. Parmelee, who has been exceedingly kind and has ministered to my wants, outward and inward. I want you to know him. Somehow I have an idea you two youngsters will get on together. Mr. Parmelee, this is my son, Philip.”
Philip bowed without moving from his place at the door. Parmelee gave a gulp and strode forward, his hand outstretched.
“We—we’re not new acquaintances, Mr. Schuyler,” he said.
“Ah!” The older man watched while the two shook hands constrainedly. “Ah!” he repeated. It was a very expressive word as he uttered it, and Parmelee, glancing at his face, saw that he understood the situation. The two unclasped their hands, and for a moment viewed each other doubtfully.
“If you know each other, that makes simpler the request I was about to make,” said Parmelee’s guest. “I want Mr. Parmelee to come and make us a visit for a week or so, Phil. I think the North Shore sunshine will take some of that white out of his face. Just see if you can’t persuade him, won’t you?” He turned away toward the window. The two at the doorway looked at each other for an instant in silence. Then Philip Schuyler put out his hand, and Parmelee grasped it.
“You’ll come?” asked Philip, softly. Parmelee nodded.