They were the
exaggerated altruism of adolescence; a part of its dreams and
aspirations. He changed the subject.
"I like the boy," he said to Grace, later, over the cribbage board
in the morning room. "He has character, and a queer sort of
magnetism. It mightn't be a bad thing--"
Grace was counting.
"I forgot to tell you; I think she refused Pink Denslow the other
day."
"I rather gathered, from the way she spoke of young Cameron, that
she isn't interested there either."
"Not a bit," said Grace, complacently. "You needn't worry about him."
Howard smiled. He was often conscious that after all the years of
their common life, his wife's mind and his traveled along parallel
lines that never met.
Willy Cameron was extremely happy. He had brought his pipe along,
although without much hope, but the moment they were settled by the
library fire Lily had suggested it.
"You know you can't talk unless you have it in your hand to wave
around," she said. "And I want to know such a lot of things. Where
you live, and all that."
"I live in a boarding house. More house than board, really. And
the work's all right. I'm going to study metallurgy some day.
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