“That word—from you!”
“You look as if you’d seen the Dweller——”
“The what, Rufe?”
He chuckled again. “Didn’t know I’ve been going in for the occult, did you? Say Pan, there’s one fine thing about you. I never feel as if you could be disappointed in your Rufie.”
“Why is that?” She was entirely off his trend.
“You haven’t started to expect anything of me.... Oh, yes, had to have a mahatma in the story. It’s the new thing. Everybody’s got one since the War. Not enough to go round.... This mahatma of mine in Chi is wise to the stock exchange. It’s his tip, you know, that the whole tale turns on. Reader never thinks of it—until it’s pulled.”
“Where did you get your model?”
He laughed again. “Right in the family, Pan. Been going to hear Adolphus. Say, you never did appreciate your father. Bad habit of yours, Pan, honest to God—to lose respect for a man just because you live with him.”
Pidge was in a whirl. Her hands dropped down to the seat of her chair on either side and gripped hard. The world looked about as big to her as Delaware; Amritsar and New York signaling to each other.
“Heard him this afternoon—in the ballroom of the Pershing—swell crowd out,” Rufe pursued. “Talked on Lytton’s Zanoni. I’m going to read that book. And didn’t Adolph put it over to the damsels and dowagers! Just what I need for my white mahatma. Where does the old man get all that? It’s a wonder you haven’t gotten in on your father’s stuff, Pan.”