Elorn Sharrow would be at the opera. To appear, now and then, in the Sharrow family’s box was expected of him. He hadn’t done it recently.
He dropped one lean leg over the other and gazed gravely at the fire. He was still trying to convince himself that he had no particular plan for the evening––that it was quite likely he might go to the opera or to the club––or, in fact, almost anywhere his fancy suggested.
In his effort to believe himself the scowl came back, denting his eyebrows. Presently he forced a yawn, unsuccessfully.
Yes, he thought he’d better go to the opera, after all. He ought to go.... It seemed to be rather expected of him.
Besides, he had nothing else to do––that is, nothing in particular––unless, of course–––
But that would scarcely do. He’d been there so often recently.... No, that wouldn’t do.... Besides it was becoming almost a habit with him. He’d been drifting there so frequently of late!... In fact, he’d scarcely been anywhere at all, recently, except––except where he certainly was not going that evening. And that settled it!... So he might as well go to the opera.
His mother, in scarf and evening wrap, passing the library door on her way down, paused in the hall and looked intently at her only son.
Recently she had been observing him rather closely 85 and with a vague uneasiness born of that inexplicable sixth sense inherent in mothers.