"Hello, Decker, glad to see you," he drawled languidly. "Wish you'd
stir the fire, Mater dear; it's beastly cold in here."
"I'll do it," said Decker shortly.
Gerald Ivy dropped gracefully on the sofa, and became absorbed in
examining his nails. He was rather a handsome if anemic youth, with
the general air of one who has weighed the world and found it wanting.
His eyes, large and brown and effective, swept the room restlessly.
They were accomplished eyes, being capable of expressing more emotions
in a moment than Gerald had felt in a lifetime.
As he idly turned the leaves of a magazine, he asked Decker how long
he had been back in America.
"A couple of months, but I've only been in town two weeks. Sorry to
hear you are under the weather."
"Oh! I'm a ruin," said Gerald; "a dilapidated, romantic ruin.
Something's gone wrong in the belfry to-day. Is my face swollen,
Mater?"
Mrs. Ivy bent over him in instant solicitude.
"I do believe it _is_ swollen, darling; just here. Look, Mr. Decker,
doesn't it seem a trifle fuller than the other side?"
Cropsie Decker's eye, not being trained by years of maternal
solicitude, failed to distinguish any difference.
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