“Come in,” he said simply. “I’m glad to see you.”
The visitor took a seat by the open window and looked out rather obviously.
“I just received your note a bit ago,” he began perfunctorily, “and called instead of giving you an appointment, as you asked. It’s the least I could do after last night.” He halted, looking at the building opposite steadily. “I want you to know that I appreciate thoroughly what you did for me then. I—I’m heartily ashamed, of course.”
“Don’t speak of it, please,” swiftly. “I’ve forgotten it and I’m sure Miss Gleason and her father have done the same. No one else knows, so let’s consider it never occurred. It never 275 will again, I’m sure, so what’s the use of remembering? Is it agreed?”
Armstrong’s narrow shoulders lifted in silence.
“As for not speaking of it again,” he answered after a moment, “yes. Whether or not in the future, however—I’m not liar enough to promise things I can’t deliver.”
“But you can ‘deliver,’ as you say,” shortly. “You know it yourself.”
Armstrong shook his head.
“I’m not as bumptious as I was a few years ago,” he commented. “I’d have said ‘yes’ then undoubtedly. Now—I don’t know.”
Roberts swung about in his desk chair, the crease between his eyes suddenly grown deep.