“When’s it to be, Darley?” repeated Armstrong. “You have it in mind, haven’t you?”
This time Roberts turned, his eyes unsmiling, his lips tight.
“When have I offended you, and how, Armstrong?” he countered directly. “Tell me that.”
“Offended!” Roused out of his ill humor Armstrong flushed penitently. “You’ve never offended, never. On the contrary, you’re only too patient with my tantrums.” He jerked himself together impulsively. “I didn’t mean anything by that at all. I’m blooming glad to see you prosper. I always knew you would.”
“The imitation colonial—factory then—” Roberts recalled slowly.
“Just a dream, a fancy, an air castle.”
“No, a reality—I hope.”
“What?—a miracle! But how about the tape line?”
“I repeat: I hope. Hope always refers to the future—the indefinite future.”
Armstrong smiled broadly, shrugged. Banter tingled on the tip of his tongue, but for some reason remained unspoken. Abruptly as it had 102 arisen the subject vanished beneath the surface. Merely the memory of that suggestion of things to come remained.