“I—I’ll see to it, he has a nice time. You know, we can take him to the theatres. Dad isn’t stingy about the money.”
“No, but Mama is.”
“We’ll get the money from Dad.”
Quincy had found a stiff position in a chair—across the room from Adelaide. Now he arose.
“Adelaide! That isn’t everything,” he rebuked her.
At least, Adelaide felt rebuked;—as if she had not known! as if it had not been delicacy that made her also waive the issue!
“Quincy—don’t get angry with me.”
“I’m not!”
Once more, he picked up a book from the table near which, as if unconsciously for help, he had found his seat. It was a folio volume with colored pictures. They really interested him. So he turned them over, one by one.
“If you’re not going to talk with me, Quincy—”