“Yes, yes! I’ll have to die when I don’t believe in it.”
“Don’t say that.”
“But it’s true, Billy Boy!” She had not called him so since the days in Vina when she was a waif and the Bennett home her refuge. The affectionate child-name touched him, bridged the distance between them.
“Oh, I don’t know,” he hesitated, “imagination may be a divine privilege; but for mere man,—too much dreaming makes him discontented. I think when one must earn one’s bread and butter the straight fact is better.”
“Boy, boy! Nothing but slavery and plodding comes of such a feeling. You’re holding your head down when you should look up, face to the sky.”
“I guess if one were making chairs for a living, he’d have to look down.”
“I guess if he hadn’t looked up he’d never have had the idea of a chair for a pattern. Oh, you’re no sheep, Billy. You couldn’t hold your nose to the ground! You’ve got to look up, or you’ll die.”
The others interrupted, calling for songs, little French songs that May Nell sang captivatingly. And after that they had college songs, and a rollicking time. Billy joined, yet with his voice only; his thoughts were lifted to the realm his soul always reached when with May Nell.
Mr. Smith came in, bringing with him a gust of the big out-of-doors; as if his swift flight in his great motor did not stop at the door. He was a man who drew all to him. Children and dogs, men and women, rich and poor. He seemed to have a wealth of power and substance that sufficed for a cityful. And he was a providence to more of the needy than any but himself knew.
He greeted the young people breezily, unconsciously giving the feeling for the moment that their presence was the one thing needful to make him happy, and left the room taking Billy with him.