In an instant Lloyd was at his side, kneeling by the
bed. She caught one of the great, gnarled hands,
seamed and corded and burning with the fever.
“Never, never, dearest; never so long as I shall
live.”
When Adler heard Bennett’s uncertain steps upon
the stairs and the sound of Lloyd’s voice speaking
to him and urging that there was no hurry, and that
he was to take but one step at a time, he wheeled swiftly
about from the windows of the glass-room, where he
had been watching the October breeze stirring the
crimson and yellow leaves in the orchard, and drew
back his master’s chair from the breakfast table
and stood behind it expectantly, his eyes watching
the door.
Lloyd held back the door, and Bennett came in, leaning
heavily on Dr. Pitts’s shoulder. Adler
stiffened upon the instant as if in answer to some
unheard bugle-call, and when Bennett had taken his
seat, pushed his chair gently to the table and unfolded
his napkin with a flourish as though giving a banner
to the wind. Pitts almost immediately left the
room, but Lloyd remained supervising Bennett’s
breakfast, pouring his milk, buttering his toast,
and opening his eggs.
“Coffee?” suddenly inquired Bennett.
Lloyd shook her head.
“Not for another week.”
Bennett looked with grim disfavour upon the glass
of milk that Lloyd had placed at his elbow.
“Such slop!” he growled. “Why
not a little sugar and warm water, and be done with
it? Lloyd, I can’t drink this stuff any
more. Why, it’s warm yet!” he exclaimed
aggrievedly and with deep disgust, abruptly setting
down the glass.
“Why, of course it is,” she answered;
“we brought the cow here especially for you,
and the boy has just done milking her—and
it’s not slop.”
“Slop! slop!” declared Bennett. He
picked up the glass again and looked at her over the
rim.
“I’ll drink this stuff this one more time
to please you,” he said. “But I promise
you this will be the last time. You needn’t
ask me again. I have drunk enough milk the past
three weeks to support a foundling hospital for a
year.”
Invariably, since the period of his convalescence
began, Bennett made this scene over his hourly glass
of milk, and invariably it ended by his gulping it
down at nearly a single swallow.
Adler brought in the mail and the morning paper.
Three letters had come for Lloyd, and for Bennett
a small volume on “Recent Arctic Research and
Exploration,” sent by his publisher with a note
to the effect that, as the latest authority on the
subject, Bennett was sure to find it of great interest.
In an appendix, inserted after the body of the book
had been made up, the Freja expedition and his own
work were briefly described. Lloyd put her letters
aside, and, unfolding the paper, said, “I’ll
read it while you eat your breakfast. Have you
everything you want? Did you drink your milk—all
of it?” But out of the corner of her eye she
noted that Adler was chuckling behind the tray that
he held to his face, and with growing suspicion she
leaned forward and peered about among the breakfast
things. Bennett had hidden his glass behind the
toast-rack.
