Page:Glitter (1926).pdf/275

LATE that afternoon Jock let himself into his mother's apartment and found her deep in conversation with Saunders Lincoln. From the door he could see the semi-circles of their heads, one iron-gray and smoothly brushed, one silver and rippling, above the backs of chairs drawn to a sociable angle. A quartette of crystal glasses on a stand, and a card table pushed to one side with cards in concise little stacks of four still lining its edge testified that there had been other guests, but there were not now, and he had an immediate distinct impression that his entrance interrupted a discussion of himself.

"Who's been taking my name in vain?" he demanded, marching over to stand before them, fists on hips, accusingly.

"Both of us," Mrs. Hamill admitted with composure. She was lying almost at full length, her slender shoulders sunk into a cushion and her feet, frivolous as a débutante's in chiffon hose and three-inch heels, thrust out-on a footstool in front of her. She twisted a finger in the long string of amber beads that touched her tea gown with color and smiled up at Jock. "Your entire future, my dear, has just been elaborately and painstakingly mapped out."

"Fine! What's it going to be?"

"God knows," said Mrs. Hamill piously. "We only