expensive lunch, a little intimidated by the malaise which only Paris can throw into the heart of true Bostonians.
And he had to improvise polite answers to their polite questions about himself and his painting. Couldn't they see some of his work? Grover thought of the unfinished sketch of a tomato salad on the easel in his shabby bedroom, and again knew to the full how far he had gone on the road of his destiny. Though none of his paintings were ready to be shown to these poor old dears, each stood for some milestone or other in the direction of self-development, and though his thoughts and emotions were equally not for their viewing, they were the thoughts and emotions of a man years and years older than the boy who had tried to parry their innocent questions, only twelve months ago, anent his plans for the future. Now he had to parry more than ever, for their eyes made inquiries which their lips were far too well-trained to utter. How do you spend your days and your nights? the eyes were asking. Have you successfully avoided the snares and pitfalls of this notorious city? Isn't it lonely for you? Or have you found some nice, refined, Christian companions?
All but Rhoda's. Rhoda's eyes, more melting than in the past, were saying, I know it; I know it; and I can bear to hear all about her in a moment, but let's prolong the illusion of the old ays a little,—then, when you're ready.
