But, of course, he had made a mistake. James
Polder's intensity increased, concentrated in a gaze at once belligerent
and eager. He said:
"Then Miss Jannan didn't tell you. It was a mistake. It may be I am not
exactly desirable here," his voice sharpened, and he retreated a step
toward the door.
"No," Howat Penny replied; "she didn't." He found himself studying a
face at once youthful and lined, a good jaw contradicted by a mouth
already traced with discontent, and yellow-brown eyes kindling with a
surprising energy of resentment. "You are Byron Polder's son?" he said
in a manner that carried its own affirmation. "Eunice Scofield's
grandson."
"Eunice Penny's," the other interjected. "Your own grandfather saw to
that." His hand rested in the doorway, and he stopped Honduras, carrying
in the guests' bags. Howat Penny's poise rapidly returned. "Go right up,
Honduras," he directed; "the Windmill room, I think. I had never seen
you," he said to James Polder, as if in apology. "But your father has
been pointed out to me." He waved the younger man into the room beyond,
and moved forward the cigarettes.
James Polder took one with an evident relief in the commonplace act. He
struck a match and lit the cigarette with elaborate care.
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