“Yes, everything’s right,” echoed Randall, “so much so that I’m simply foolishly happy.” He paused meaningly. “And now, since—”
Roberts gestured—merely gestured.
“Aren’t you going to permit me even to thank you?” countered Randall.
“I came to hear the news,” evenly. Roberts smiled suddenly at the look on his companion’s face. “I understand about that other matter,” he digressed, ambiguously but nevertheless adequately; “let it go at that. Mrs. Randall, I presume—”
“She hung your portrait, life size, in the parlor downstairs a few days ago,” with direct malice. 322
Again Roberts gestured; then he looked up. They laughed together and the tabooed subject by mutual consent passed into oblivion.
“Miss Gleason—Elice—” suggested Roberts.
“Still at her place in the university.” Randall busied himself with a strand of lint on the collar of his smoking-jacket. “Her father’s gone all to pieces, you know, and she seems a bit—tired. Otherwise she’s herself—as always.”
“No, I didn’t know,” said Roberts. “And Armstrong?”
“He’s been working steadily for months, and been straight absolutely.” Randall ventured a glance at last. “To-day was his big day; you do know that. He was in the clouds this evening.”