Donald, retaining Hattie's hand, made the round of greetings.
“Where are Connie and Bert?”
“Connie is dressing for a party, and poor old Bert is struggling with the chickenpox,” Miss Lady managed to say as she busied herself with the coffee cups.
“And now tell us about yourself,” said the Doctor, drawing a chair for Donald beside his own. “You will pardon my cushions, but I am still something of an invalid, and the little lady at the end of the table insists upon spoiling me. You knew, of course, of my accident, some two years ago?”
“Not until I got home,” Donald said without looking up. “I hope you've gotten well again?”
“Oh, no, I shall never be well. The physicians assured me of that from the first, but they also said that with care and proper conservation of my energies I would probably live to a ripe old age. I do not suppose you have ever had to resist the temptation to overwork, Donald?”
Donald smiled and puckered his brow.
“He has plenty of work cut out for him now!” growled Mr. Gooch, whose mind having been temporarily diverted by the salad now rushed back to the trial.
“Work for an admirable cause,” said the Doctor. “Mr. Gooch has just been telling us of your decision, Donald, and I cannot express my gratification at your course of action.”
“Thank you, Doctor! That's the first encouragement I've had. My family seem to think I am a lunatic, and even my lawyer, here, is taking the case under protest.”