"'We've taken a suite of offices in the new Lakeview Building on
Michigan Avenue. Would you like your office done in mahogany or
oak?'"
Jock came to a full stop before his mother. His cheeks were
scarlet. Hers were pale. He was breathing quickly. She was very
quiet. His eyes glowed. So did hers, but the glow was dimmed by a
mist.
"Mahogany's richer, but make it oak, son. It doesn't show
finger-marks so." Then, quite suddenly, she stood up, shaking a
little, and buried her face in the boy's shoulder.
"Why--why, Mother! Don't! Don't, Blonde. We'll see each other
every few weeks. I'll be coming to New York to see the sights,
like the rest of the rubes, and I suppose the noise and lights
will confuse me so that I'll be glad to get back to the sylvan
quiet of Chicago. And then you'll run out there, eh? We'll have
regular bats, Mrs. Mack. Dinner and the theater and supper! Yes?"
"Yes," said Emma McChesney, in muffled tones that totally lacked
enthusiasm.
"Chicago's really only a suburb of New York, anyway, these days,
and--"
Emma McChesney's head came up sharply. "Look here, son. If you're
going to live in Chicago I advise you to cut that suburb talk, and
sort of forget New York.
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