Indeed, in the genial altruism of host, Briscoe had succeeded in
breaking from the thrall of embarrassment to shield and save the
situation.
"Why, here is Archie!" he exclaimed resonantly. "How are _you_, old
man?" His clear tones were vibrant with disproportionate elation at the
prospect of a diversion of the painful interest of the scene.
For at the moment a fine blond boy of three years burst in at the rear
door of the apartment and came running to meet Mrs. Royston, just
apprised, doubtless, of her return from her afternoon stroll. He looked
very fresh in his white linen dress, his red leather belt, and twinkling
red shoes. With the independent nonchalance of childhood, he took no note
of the outstretched arms and blandishing smile of Mr. Briscoe, who sought
to intercept him, but made directly toward his mother. His gleaming
reflection sped along in the polished, mirroring floor, but all at once
both semblance and substance paused. With a sudden thought the child put
his dimpled hands over his smiling pink face, while his blue eyes danced
merrily between the tips of his fingers.
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