Kathleen stroked it thoughtfully. “Roddy brought it up from Old Mexico, you know. He gave it to Tom that winter he had pneumonia. Tom ought to have taken it to France with him. He used to say that Rodney Blake might turn up in the Foreign Legion. If he had taken this, it might have been like the wooden cups that were always revealing Amis and Amile to each other.”
St. Peter smiled and patted her hand on the blanket. “Do you know, Kitty, I sometimes think I ought to go out and look for Blake myself. He’s on my conscience. If that country down there weren’t so everlastingly big—”
“Oh, Father! That was my romantic dream when I was little, finding Roddy! I used to think about it for hours when I was supposed to be taking my nap. I used to swim rivers and climb mountains and wander about with Navajos, and rescue Roddy at the most critical moments, when he was being stabbed in the back, or drugged in a gambling-house, and bring him back to Tom. You know Tom told us about him long before he ever told you.”
“You children used to live in his stories. You cared more about them than about all your adventure books.”
“I still do,” said Kathleen, rising. “Now that Rosamond has Outland, I consider Tom’s mesa entirely my own.”
St. Peter put down the cigarette he had just lighted with anticipation. “Can’t you stay awhile, Kitty? I almost never see anyone who remembers that side of Tom. It was nice, all those years when he was in and out of the house like an older brother. Always very different from the other college boys, wasn’t he? Always had something in his voice, in his eyes … One seemed to catch glimpses of an unusual background behind his shoulders when he came into the room.”