He was chilled through by midafternoon and stopped in the Student Club cafeteria for a cup of coffee before taking the bus. There he spotted Scotty Smythe, sitting alone, looking morose. Duff carried his cup over to Scotty’s table.
“Coming for your lesson tomorrow, Sir Isaac?”
Smythe looked up. “Hi, Einstein! Guess so.”
“Haven’t seen you around lately. What gives?”
Scotty stared thoughtfully at Duff. His lips drew out in a somber line, but his eyes flickered. “You observe here,” he presently replied, a young man, five foot ten and a quarter, one hundred and fifty-eight pounds. Hair, muddy black; eyes, putty gray; occupation, college senior. He is carrying the torch.”
“Fight?” Scotty contemplated the question. “No. Brush.”
“Meaning what?”
“You notice any change in Eleanor lately?”
“She’s tired. Nervous. On edge.”
The younger man turned over those words in his mind. “Minimally,” he said in the end. “She is also suddenly interested in a laddy-boy named Tony who owns half the hardware stores in Florida, or will, when his pappy kicks off or retires. This chump is pretty to look at; he went to Princeton, and he has a convertible too. Chartreuse.”