Max received his invitation in silence; a silence that piqued Sydney. “If you don’t care to meet my friends, say so. I’ll tell Billy to count your plate off,” he said roughly.
“Don’t take it that way. I appreciate the courtesy, believe me. Yet—ought I to accept? Suppose they knew—all about me, would they ask me just the same? Is it fair to them for you to take me?”
“Gee! I never thought about that,” Sydney mused, glancing at Max with new respect.
“Does Mrs. Schmitz know your friends?”
“Yes. She thinks they’re fine folks.”
“Then we’ll ask her.”
Questioned, she too, thought a moment before replying, her eyes fixed on the doubting one. “Max,” she began seriously, “I have belief in you. I feel sure you will make goot. Sydney shall tell his friends that you are one dear friend of me. I stand for you.”
Max gazed steadily back at her a second, then laid his hand on hers. “Thank you. I shall not shame you.” The words were simple but Sydney felt the earnestness in them; saw the moisture in the dark eyes, and turned aside to hide his own. He, too, was won, and promised himself to believe in Max always.
This was Max’s introduction to the delightful home where Billy Bennett and his mother lived with his married sister Edith and her husband, Mr. Wright.
Through the dinner, which was perfectly served, Sydney watched Max with an envy he despised but could not conquer. Every word and move of the stranger lad proved that he had found his own. The way he spoke to the ladies, the confident, unconscious but correct use of the silver, a matter that made Sydney turn red with anxiety; Max’s low and different yet kind tone to the maid; his easy yet modest attitude toward Mr. Wright—everything was just right, Sydney acknowledged to himself.