“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.