"What on earth was the matter with you, Van?" he asked.
Van stirred uneasily.
"Bobbie," he said, "I'm going to tell you something. I've been
wondering whether I'd better or not, and at last I've decided to. I
didn't want to go to your father's refinery to-day or, in fact, at
all. You've all been very kind to me, although it was not until I
got a letter from my father this morning that I realized how kind."
He paused.
"Has your dad told you anything about my people?" he asked abruptly.
"Of course he knows, but he may have thought best to keep it to
himself; at any rate it has not prevented him from giving me as
cordial a welcome to your home as he would if--"
"If what?"
"Well, if I weren't the person I am."
"What do you mean?"
"Why, he's trusted me and treated me as if he really liked me; and
yet under the circumstances you can't expect him actually to mean
it."
"Mean what? What are you talking about?"
"Hasn't he spoken to you about my father?"
"Of course not; why should he?"
"Then you haven't heard anything?"
"Not a word. I don't understand what you are driving at at all," Bob
declared, somewhat irritated. "Out with it. What's the matter?"
Van hesitated as if uncertain how to begin.
"That's mighty white of your father," he murmured, breaking the
pause. "You see, it is this way. When I wrote home that I was going
to New Hampshire to visit my roommate the family wrote me to go
ahead. I recall now that I didn't mention your last name; in fact I
guess I haven't in any of my letters.
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