"The Dean has told me all about it. He says that Tad has given him no
trouble since. Before that he'd given a good deal. I wish I could tell
you how grateful we are, especially as things are turning out, with a
war hanging over us."
Tom saw an opportunity of speaking without sentiment. "That's what I
thought. It seemed to me a pity that good fighting stuff should be
lost just through--through too much skylarking."
"Yes, it would have been. Tad _has_ good fighting stuff."
There was a catch of the woman's breath. Tom recalled the staccato
nervousness of their first brief meeting in Gore Hall. He wished they
hadn't brought him there. They were strangers to him; he was a stranger
to them. Whatever link might have been between him and them in the
past, there was no link now. It would be a mistake to try to forge one.
But in on this thought the man broke gently.
"I wonder if you'd mind telling us all about yourself that you know? I
presume that you understand why I'm asking you."
"Yes, sir, I do; but I don't think I can help you much."
The woman's voice, vibrating and tragic, startled him. It was as if she
were speaking to herself, as if something were being wrung from her in
spite of her efforts to keep it back. "The likeness is extraordinary!"
Taking no notice of this, the man began to question him, "Where were
you born?"
"In the Bronx."