AVID was enjoying his holiday. He lay in bed most of the morning, making the most of his one after-breakfast cigar and surrounded by newspaper and magazines. He had made friends of the waiter who brought his breakfast, and of the little chambermaid who looked after his room, and such conversations as this would follow:
“Well, Nellie,” he would say, “and did you go to the dance on the pier last night?”
“Oh, yes, doctor.”
“Your gentleman friend showed up all right, then?”
“Oh, yes. He didn't telephone because he was on a job out of town.”
Here perhaps David would lower his voice, for Lucy was never far away.
“Did you wear the flowers?”
“Yes, violets. I put one away to remember you by. It was funny at first. I wouldn't tell him who gave them to me.”
David would chuckle delightedly.
“That's right,” he would say. “Keep him guessing, the young rascal. We men are kittle cattle, Nellie, kittle cattle!”
Even the valet unbent to him, and inquired if the doctor needed a man at home to look after him and his clothes. David was enormously tickled.
“Well,” he said, with a twinkle in his eye. “I'll tell you how I manage now, and then you'll see. When I want my trousers pressed I send them downstairs and then I wait in my bathrobe until they come back. I'm a trifle better off for boots, but you'd have to knock Mike, my hired man, unconscious before he'd let you touch them.”
The valet grinned understandingly.
“Of course, there's my nephew,” David went on, a little note of pride in his voice. “He's become engaged recently, and I notice he's bought some clothes. But still I don't think even he will want anybody to hold his trousers while he gets into them.”
David chuckled over that for a long time after the valet had gone.
He was quite happy and contented. He spent all afternoon in a roller chair, conversing affably with the man who pushed him, and now and then when Lucy was out of sight getting out and stretching his legs. He picked up lost children and lonely dogs, and tried his eye in a shooting gallery, and had hard work keeping off the roller coasters and out of the sea.
Then, one day, when he had been gone some time, he was astonished on entering his hotel to find Harrison Miller sitting in the lobby. David beamed with surprise and pleasure.
“You old humbug!” he said. “Off on a jaunt after all! And the contempt of you when I was shipped here!”
Harrison Miller was constrained and uncomfortable. He had meant to see Lucy first. She was a sensible woman, and she would know just what David could stand, or could not. But David did not notice his constraint; took him to his room, made him admire the ocean view, gave him a cigar, and then sat down across from him, beaming and hospitable.
“Suffering Crimus, Miller,” he said. “I didn't know I was homesick until I saw you. Well, how's everything? Dick's letters haven't been much, and we haven't had any for several days.”
Harrison Miller cleared his throat. He knew that David had not been told of Jim Wheeler's death, but that Lucy knew. He knew too from Walter Wheeler that David did not know that Dick had gone west. Did Lucy know that, or not? Probably yes. But he considered the entire benevolent conspiracy an absurdity and a mistake. It was making him uncomfortable, and most of his life had been devoted to being comfortable.
He decided to temporize.
“Things are about the same,” he said. “They're going to pave Chisholm Street. And your Mike knocked down the night watchman last week. I got him off with a fine.”
“I hope he hasn't been in my cellar. He's got a weakness, but then—How's Dick? Not overworking?”
“No. He's all right.”
But David was no man's fool. He began to see something strange in Harrison's manner, and he bent forward in his chair.
“Look here, Harrison,” he said, “there's something the matter with you. You've got something on your mind.”
“Well, I have and I haven't. I'd like to see Lucy, David, if she's about.”
“Lucy's gadding. You can tell me if you can her. What is it? Is it about Dick?”
“In a way, yes.”
“He's not sick?”
“No. He's all right, as far as I know. I guess I'd better tell you, David. Walter Wheeler has got some sort of bee in his bonnet, and he got me to come on. Dick was pretty tired and—well, one or two things happened to worry him. One was that Jim Wheeler—you'll get this sooner or later—was in an automobile accident, and it did for him.”
David had lost some of his ruddy color. It was a moment before he spoke.
“Poor Jim,” he said hoarsely. “He was a good boy, only full of life. It will be hard on the family.”
“Yes,” Harrison Miller said simply.