"I heard."
She took a couple of steps into the room, her eyes still sharply
observant, and I wondered whether there was anything of wariness in
them--or just a girl's natural suspicion of a stranger who comes around
asking questions.
"Mr. Cameron stopped by to see you," her mother said cheerfully, "so I
asked him to stay for dinner. It's all ready."
"Maybe he doesn't have time," the girl suggested.
"He has to eat," the woman said, briskly appraising my tall, angular
frame. "And he looks like he could use a good, home-cooked meal."
I smelled the heaping bowl of vegetables and the thick slices of real
bread. Sharp teeth of hunger gnawed at me.
"I guess I am hungry at that."
Although it was obvious that she did not welcome my presence, Helen
Darrow did not object, nor did she press immediately to find out what
I wanted to see her about. The four of us sat around the small table
and ate. The girl and her father were silent. Mrs. Darrow talked with
unaffected garrulousness about Helen and her aspirations in physics,
her childhood successes in school, the happiness she had brought her
parents. Pride bloomed in the mother's voice. The girl would sometimes
smile slightly and make a mild protest which her mother brushed aside.
I began to realize that the girl was not actively unfriendly, simply
reserved and rather serious by disposition. Soon I was feeling quite
comfortable with the intimate family group. I liked them and even
envied them a little. Any suspicions I might have had evaporated. When
the girl's question came at last, near the end of the meal, voiced
casually as if it were not important, I felt guilty about persisting in
a pointless investigation. At the same time, I had to come up with a
plausible excuse for my visit.
"What was it you wanted to see me about, Mr. Cameron?"