Bellair’s father had not been a seaman, but there was little to that. They were one in the initial proclivity. Perhaps if the truth were shaken down, there was something in this fact that had to do with their relation.
“Could I have breakfast and supper here with you?” he asked suddenly.
The woman looked startled. “You see, I am away three days a week.”
It was Bellair’s idea to make this impossible, so he insisted:
“My wants are simple. I might not be here always to supper—but, of course, I should want to pay for it. It would be pleasant—we three together—and no matter to me if supper were a bit late. You see, Mrs. Acton, now that I’ve begun, I insist on having a home. I lived in one room for five years, and that sort of thing is ended. A hotel is no better.”
Davy returned and Bellair took him forth at once, impatient to continue the adventure of the purchases, begun the night before. Hours passed. Once Davy looked up to him in a mixture of awe and joy:
“Why are you buying so many things for us, Mr. Bellair?”
“Sit down,” the man answered.
They were in a retail clothier’s. The salesman drew back.
“Davy,” said Bellair, “it’s the most natural thing. First I have the money and you have the needs. Second, we are friends——”