However, he was smoking when George arrived, and he encouraged George
to join him in the pastime, but the caller, whose air was both tense
and preoccupied, declined with something like agitation.
"I never smoke--that is, I'm seldom--I mean, no thanks," he said. "I
mean not at all. I'd rather not."
"Aren't you well, George?" Eugene asked, looking at him in
perplexity. "Have you been overworking at college? You do look rather
pa--"
"I don't work," said George. "I mean I don't work. I think, but I
don't work. I only work at the end of the term. There isn't much to
do."
Eugene's perplexity was little decreased, and a tinkle of the door-
bell afforded him obvious relief. "It's my foreman," he said, looking
at his watch. "I'll take him out in the yard to talk. This is no
place for a foreman." And he departed, leaving the "living room" to
Lucy and George. It was a pretty room, white panelled and blue
curtained--and no place for a foreman, as Eugene said. There was a
grand piano, and Lucy stood leaning back against it, looking intently
at George, while her fingers, behind her, absently struck a chord or
two.
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