Just before the noon meal Keith appeared once more at the kitchen door.
"Susan, would it bother you very much if I ate out here—with you?" he asked.
"With me? Nonsense! You'll eat in the dinin'-room with your dad, of course. Why, what would he say to your eatin' out here with me?"
"That's just it. It's dad. He'd like it, I'm sure," insisted the boy feverishly. "You know sometimes I—I don't get any food on my fork, when I eat, an' I have to—to feel for things, an' it—it must be disagreeable to see me. An' you know he never liked disagreeable—"
"Now, Keith Burton, you stop right where you are," interrupted Susan harshly. "You're goin' to eat with your father where you belong. An' do you now run back to the settin'-room. I've got my dinner to get."
Keith had not disappeared down the hall, however, before Susan was halfway up the back stairs. A moment later she was in the studio.
"Daniel Burton, you're goin' to have company to dinner," she panted.
"Company?"
"Yes. Your son." "KEITH?" The man drew back perceptibly.
"There, now, Daniel Burton, don't you go to scowlin' an' lookin' for a place to run, just because you hate to see him feel 'round for what he eats."