And
for a time Caleb withheld his greeting; instead of speaking he stood
and studied him, and while he studied it all came back again, until the
illusion, if such it were, was far more vivid, far more compelling than
it had been the night before. Caleb told himself that to look only
meant the discovery of new and compelling "points" both in feature and
body, new and surprising suggestions of inbred fineness totally at
variance with the unhemmed white drill trousers and uncouth shoes. And
then, while he was nodding to himself, he realized that the boy was not
looking down into the town in the valley.
Chin in palm, elbow upon knee, Steve was gazing fixedly in the
direction of Dexter Allison's stucco and timber "summer lodge," and
although Caleb could not have known it, there had been no need for his
silence, for the boy's rapt preoccupation was sound-proof. Caleb heard
voices coming from behind the shrubbery and just as he, a little
perplexed, turned to follow the direction of that fascinated gaze,
Allison himself squeezed through a narrow aperture in the box hedge and
hailed him jovially from the far edge of the lawn. And Caleb Hunter's
brows drew together in a bit of a frown when a slender figure in kilted
black velvet and bright-buckled low shoes, hatless and with thick,
gleaming hair bobbed short in a style strange to Morrison in those
days, flashed through behind him.
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