The argument was irresistible and Randall capitulated.
“No, none whatever,” he answered, as he was expected to answer; and once more sweet peace rested on the house of Randall.
Back in her place opposite once more Margery looked at her husband seriously, a pucker of perplexity on her smooth face.
“By the way,” she digressed, “I’ve been wondering for some time now if anything’s wrong with Elice and Steve. Has he hinted anything to you?”
“No; why?”
“Oh, I don’t know anything definite; but he’s been here three evenings the last week, you know, Sunday evening for one at that, and it looks queer.”
“I’ve noticed it too,” admitted Randall, “and he’s coming again this evening. He asked permission and I couldn’t well refuse. Not that I don’t like to have him come,” quickly, “but it interferes with my lectures next morning.”
“And with our own evenings. I—just wish he wouldn’t come so often.”
Randall said nothing, but unconsciously he 118 was stroking the bald spot already appearing on the crown of his head in a way he had when worried.
“And, besides,” justified Margery, “it isn’t treating Elice right. I think it’s a shame.”