David did not sleep well that night. He had not had his golf after

all, for the Homer baby had sent out his advance notice early in the

afternoon, and had himself arrived on Sunday evening, at the hour when

Minnie was winding her clock and preparing to retire early for the

Monday washing, and the Sayre butler was announcing dinner. Dick had

come in at ten o'clock weary and triumphant, to announce that Richard

Livingstone Homer, sex male, color white, weight nine pounds, had been

safely delivered into this vale of tears.

David lay in the great walnut bed which had been his mother's, and read

his prayer book by the light of his evening lamp. He read the Evening

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Prayer and the Litany, and then at last he resorted to the thirty-nine

articles, which usually had a soporific effect on him. But it was no

good.

He got up and took to pacing his room, a portly, solid old figure in

striped pajamas and the pair of knitted bedroom slippers which were

always Mrs. Morgan's Christmas offering. "To Doctor David, with love and

a merry Xmas, from Angeline Morgan."

At last he got his keys from his trousers pocket and padded softly down

the stairs and into his office, where he drew the shade and turned on

the lights. Around him was the accumulated professional impedimenta of

many years; the old-fashioned surgical chair; the corner closet which

had been designed for china, and which held his instruments; the

bookcase; his framed diplomas on the wall, their signatures faded, their

seals a little dingy; his desk, from which Dick had removed the old

ledger which had held those erratic records from which, when he needed

money, he had been wont--and reluctant--to make out his bills.

Through an open door was Dick's office, a neat place of shining linoleum

and small glass stands, highly modern and business-like. Beyond the

office and opening from it was his laboratory, which had been the fruit

closet once, and into which Dick on occasion retired to fuss with slides

and tubes and stains and a microscope.

Sometimes he called David in, and talked at length and with enthusiasm

about such human interest things as the Staphylococcus pyogenes aureus,

and the Friedlander bacillus. The older man would listen, but his eyes

were oftener on Dick than on the microscope or the slide.

David went to the bookcase and got down a large book, much worn, and

carried it to his desk.

An hour or so later he heard footsteps in the hall and closed the book

hastily. It was Lucy, a wadded dressing gown over her nightdress and a

glass of hot milk in her hand.




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