"Not that memory and love are lessened, dear," he explained with tremulous, voiceless lips, "—but you have been away so long, and here on earth time moves slowly without you—dearest—dearest——" "Th’ divil’s in that young wan," panted Janet outside his chamber door. "She won’t be dressed! She’s turning summersalts on her bed, God help her!" "Did you bathe her?" demanded Cleland, hurriedly buttoning his collar and taking one of the scarfs offered by old Meacham. "I did, sor—and it was like scrubbing an eel. Not that she was naughty, sor—the darlint!—only playful-like and contrayry—all over th’ tub, under wather and atop, and pretindin’ the soap and brush was fishes and she another chasin’ them——" "Janet!" "Sorr?" "Has she had her breakfast?" "Two, sorr." "What?" "Cereal and cream, omelet and toast, three oranges and a pear, and a pint of milk——" "Good heavens! Do you want to kill the child?" "Arrah, sorr, she’ll never be kilt with feedin’! It’s natural to the young, sorr—and she leppin’ and skippin’ and turnin’ over and over like a young kid!—and how I’m to dress her in her clothes God only knows——" "Janet! Stop your incessant chatter! Go upstairs and tell Miss Stephanie that I want her to dress immediately." "I will, sorr." Cleland looked at Meacham and the little faded old man looked back out of wise, tragic eyes which had seen hell—would see it again more than once before he finished with the world. "What do you think of my little ward, Meacham?" "It is better not to think, sir; it is better to just believe." "What do you mean?" "Just that, sir. If we really think we can’t believe. It’s pleasanter to hope. The young lady is very pretty, sir." Cleland Senior always wore a fresh white waistcoat, winter and summer, and a white carnation in his button-hole. He put on and buttoned the one while Meacham adjusted the other. They had been together many years, these two men. Every two or three months Meacham locked himself in his room and drank himself stupid. Sometimes he remained invisible for a week, sometimes for two weeks. Years ago Cleland had given up hope of helping him. Once, assisted by hirelings, he had taken Meacham by a combination of strategy and force to a famous institute where the periodical dipsomaniac is cured if he chooses to be. And Meacham emerged, cured to that extent; and immediately proceeded to lock himself in his room and lie there drunk for eighteen days.