CHAPTER XCraig told his father and mother a few days later, when he ran into town to lunch in the old family mansion in Madison Avenue. Rodney Spaulding, grizzled, thin, helpless in his wheeled chair, merely smiled and nodded. What his boy did always satisfied him.
Mrs. Spaulding was a magnificent person of sixty, gray-headed, stout, imposing. Her eyebrows were sternly black in a rather florid face, her eyes small, keen, and gray, her mouth heavy and faintly shaded with hair. She was an extremely clever, extremely sensible person, and she rather approved his decision than otherwise.
“I’m very glad it isn’t Violet Vanderwort!” she said, ruffling her salad with her fork.
“There never was anything in that!” Craig answered, flushing.
“No, I know there wasn’t,” his mother said, briskly. “Bu
