When he came down, the others were at table. Dick, figuring on his yellow pad, glanced up, rose, greeted him with unprecedented cordiality. "Why, when did you blow in?" he exclaimed.
"A few minutes ago." Gallatin glanced at Courtney. The quiet mockery of her absent gaze made him red and awkward. "I—I—got through—so—I—came," he explained with stammering lameness.
"Naturally," said Dick. He had taken up his pencil. "Make yourself at home."
Gallatin’s glance fell on Winchie frowning at him. "Howdy, Winchie?" said he.
The boy made a curt bow, resumed his supper. He was permitted—or, rather, under Courtney’s system of training him to think and act for himself, he permitted himself to eat only certain simple things, and very little of them—and he was wonderfully sensible about it. When he finished he kissed his mother good night, made his salute to his father and, almost imperceptibly, to Gallatin, and went upstairs. Gallatin nerved himself to several efforts at beginning conversation with Courtney. Each time, as he glanced up, he was checked and flung back into embarrassed silence by seeing in her absent eyes the same disconcerting mockery. After supper, Richard hurried away to the library. When she showed that she was going upstairs, Gallatin detained her. "One moment, please," he pleaded humbly. "What have I done to offend you?"
Courtney flushed. But the raillery came back instantly. "I’m not offended. I’m amused."
"At you." The smile broadened charmingly. "So you’ve had a successful trip?"
"I want you to be my friend—if you will. I repeat, you can trust me now."
Her eyes sparkled dangerously. "It’s fortunate I understand men—and have a sense of humor."
"I know I deserve any punishment you choose to give," said he. "And I’ll take it. Only—I want to stay on here—and to have your friendship."
She studied him critically. Her expression would have been trying enough in its penetrating judicial intelligence for the least self-conscious of men. It utterly disconcerted Basil, bred in the fashionable world’s incessant consciousness of self. But in his desperation he withstood her look, returned it with eyes that were appealing yet not abject. It pleased her that he was not abject. "After all, you went on my advice, didn’t you?" said she in a friendlier tone. "And you’ve been most manlike—have shown yourself to be just what I thought you. So I’m really unreasonable." She gave him her hand. "Yes, let us be friends."
