He put his arm about her waist; it was a large, strong, sophisticated arm, and very agreeable; he grinned at her with a devastating knowingness, while Kennicott glowed inanely.  She flushed; she was alarmed by the ease with which the big-city man invaded her guarded personality.  She was glad, in retreat, to scamper ahead of the two men up-stairs to the hall-room in which Hugh slept.  All the way Kennicott muttered, “Well, well, say, gee whittakers but it’s good to have you back, certainly is good to see you!”

Hugh lay on his stomach, making an earnest business of sleeping.  He burrowed his eyes in the dwarf blue pillow to escape the electric light, then sat up abruptly, small and frail in his woolly nightdrawers, his floss of brown hair wild, the pillow clutched to his breast.  He wailed.  He stared at the stranger, in a manner of patient dismissal.  He explained confidentially to Carol, “Daddy wouldn’t let it be morning yet.  What does the pillow say?”

Bresnahan dropped his arm caressingly on Carol’s shoulder; he pronounced, “My Lord, you’re a lucky girl to have a fine young husk like that.  I figure Will knew what he was doing when he persuaded you to take a chance on an old bum like him!  They tell me you come from St. Paul.  We’re going to get you to come to Boston some day.”  He leaned over the bed.  “Young man, you’re the slickest sight I’ve seen this side of Boston.  With your permission, may we present you with a slight token of our regard and appreciation of your long service?”

He held out a red rubber Pierrot.  Hugh remarked, “Gimme it,” hid it under the bedclothes, and stared at Bresnahan as though he had never seen the man before.

For once Carol permitted herself the spiritual luxury of not asking “Why, Hugh dear, what do you say when some one gives you a present?” The great man was apparently waiting.  They stood in inane suspense till Bresnahan led them out, rumbling, “How about planning a fishing-trip, Will?”

He remained for half an hour.  Always he told Carol what a charming person she was; always he looked at her knowingly.

“Yes.  He probably would make a woman fall in love with him.  But it wouldn’t last a week.  I’d get tired of his confounded buoyancy.  His hypocrisy.  He’s a spiritual bully.  He makes me rude to him in self-defense.  Oh yes, he is glad to be here.  He does like us.  He’s so good an actor that he convinces his own self. . . .  I’d hate him in Boston.  He’d have all the obvious big-city things.  Limousines.  Discreet evening-clothes.  Order a clever dinner at a smart restaurant.  Drawing-room decorated by the best firm—­but the pictures giving him away.  I’d rather talk to Guy Pollock in his dusty office. . . .  How I lie!  His arm coaxed my shoulder and his eyes dared me not to admire him.  I’d be afraid of him.  I hate him! . . .  Oh, the inconceivable egotistic imagination of women!  All this stew of analysis about a man, a good, decent, friendly, efficient man, because he was kind to me, as Will’s wife!”