“Well, is it time to go?” his mother spoke. “Or can you sit down a few minutes?”
“I’m afraid not, Mama.” The boy shifted nervously from foot to foot.
With this Adelaide got up.
“Have you room for this in your valise?” she asked, handing him a tidily wrapped box.
Quincy reached out his hand. “What is it?”
“Oh, I thought—perhaps—” she faltered, “now you are to be a college man—you might want to smoke.” There was a pause. “It is a tin of cigarettes.”
“Child! Why put the idea into his head?” cried Sarah.
“I had the idea before,” Quincy retorted. And then, he thanked his sister who stood expectant, not yet knowing whether she had done a thing extremely felicitous or awkward.
“Even if I don’t smoke there’ll be plenty of the boys who will,” was his colorless observation. He slipped the box into his pocket.
“Good-bye, Quincy, and good luck.” Adelaide kissed him. “And don’t get homesick.”