At breakfast, his son sat opposite as usual, Stephanie on his right, very quiet, and keeping her grey eyes on her plate so persistently that the father finally noticed her subdued demeanour, and kept an eye on her until in her momentarily lifted face he detected the sensitive, forced smile of a child close to tears.
All the resolute composure she could summon did not conceal from him the tragedy of a child who is about to lose its hero and who feels itself left out—excluded, as it were, from the last sad rites.
He was touched, conscience stricken, and yet almost inclined to smile. He said casually, as they rose from the table:
"Steve, dear, tell Janet to make you ready at once, if you are going to see Jim off."
"Am—I—going!" faltered the child, flushing and tremulous with surprise and happiness.
"Why, of course. Run quickly to Janet, now." And, to his son, when the eager little flying feet had sped out of sight and hearing: "Steve felt left out, Jim. Do you understand, dear?"
"Y-yes, Father."
"Also, she is inclined to take your departure very seriously. You do understand, don't you, my dear son?"
The boy said that he did, vaguely disappointed that he was not to have the last moments alone with his father.
So they all went down town together in the car, and there were other boys there with parents; and some recognitions among the other people; desultory, perfunctory conversations, cohesion among the school boys welcoming one another with ardour and strenuous cordiality after only ten days' separation.