“Nothing could have happened better!” cried Chelsfield, arousing himself. “You have only to run home and jump into evening dress, and—”
“My boy wants me to take him to see the conjuring people at St. George’s Hall.”
“You’re not spoiling that lad of yours, I hope, Watherston?”
“I’m not spoiling my lad,” retorted Watherston, speaking with emphasis. The two men gazed at each other with the sudden acerbity of manner that comes at times to the closest friends. Chelsfield’s eyes went presently to the fruit on the table. “Ever hear anything of yours?” demanded Watherston, following up his advantage.
“There’s no doubt whatever,” replied Chelsfield testily, “that he disappeared in South Africa. I don’t want to discuss the matter again. He was older than your boy. And you know as well as I do that after his mother died he went to the bad.”
“You told him to stay there?”
“I can give you and your lad a lift as far as Kingsway,” said Chelsfield, “if that’s of any use.”
“It won’t be much help to us,” replied his friend candidly; “but we shall be company for you.”
The Watherston boy was enthusiastic about the swift ride, enthusiastic about the performance he was about to see, enthusiastic at being with his father, enthusiastic over everything. Chelsfield, watching him on the way, thought that no man desired any better company than that of a cheerful son. Arrived at Holborn, he suddenly announced that he had decided to take the complimentary step of giving up the theatre-box and of joining them in their visit to St. George’s Hall. As he lowered the window and put his head out to speak to his man, the boy and father conferred in a whisper.
“Chelsfield!” said the friend, touching his sleeve.