"Will be better off without her—for the same time. While I—shall be, oh, so infinitely better off with you. Ah, son, but I've missed you so!" It was the same longing cry that had gone straight to Burke's heart a few minutes before. "You'll come?"
There was a tense silence. Burke's face plainly showed the struggle within him. A moment more, and he spoke.
"Dad, I'll have to think it out," he temporized brokenly. "I'll let you know in the morning."
"Good!" If John Denby was disappointed, he did not show it. "We'll let it go till morning, then. Meanwhile, it can do no harm to look at these, however," he smiled, with a wave of his hand toward the maps and time-tables.
"No, of course not," acquiesced Burke promptly, relieved that his father agreed so willingly to the delay.
Half an hour later he went upstairs to his old room to bed.
It was a fine old room. He had forgotten that a bedroom could be so large—and so convenient. Benton, plainly, had been there. Also, plainly, his hand had not lost its cunning, nor his brain the memory of how Master Burke "liked things."
The arrangement of the lights, the glass of milk by his bed, the turned-down spread and sheet, the latest magazine ready to his hand—even the size and number of towels in his bathroom testified to Benton's loving hand and good memory.
With a sigh that was almost a sob Burke dropped himself into a chair and looked about him.
It was all so peaceful, so restful, so comfortable. And it was so quiet. He had forgotten that a room could be so quiet.