"Was it Hildred Ansley?"
Tom found himself coloring, and without an answer.
"Oh, you needn't tell me. I didn't mean to embarrass you. The Ansleys
are very good friends of mine. Known them well for years. If it hadn't
been for them you and I might never have got together. Now give me some
account of yourself. It must be nearly two months since I last heard
from you."
Tom gave such scraps of information as he hadn't told in letters, and
thought might be of interest. With some use of inner force he nerved
himself to ask after Mrs. Whitelaw, and "the other members of the
family," a phrase which evaded the use of names.
The banker talked more freely than he had written. He talked as to
one with whom he could open his heart, and not as to an outsider.
Mrs. Whitelaw was stronger and calmer, less subject to the paralyzing
terrors which had beset her for so long. Tad was doing with himself
the best he could, but the best in the case of a fellow of his age and
tastes who had lost his right arm was not very good. He could ride a
little, guiding his horse with his left hand, but he couldn't drive
a car, or hunt, or play polo, or use his hand for writing. He could
hardly dress himself; he fed himself only when everything was cut
up for him. In the course of time he would probably do better, but
as yet he couldn't do much. Lily had made a mess of things. It was
worse than what he had told Tom in his letters. She had eloped with a
worthless fellow, whom he, her father, had forbidden her to know, and
who wanted nothing but her money. It was a sad affair, and had stunned
or bewildered her. He didn't like to talk of it, but Tom would see for
himself.