Ardly laughed cynically.
"I wish he'd drop a few hints to Providence," he remarked. "It is certainly a plane upon which the universe has never been conducted."
Father Algarcife walked on in silence, making his way along the crowded street with a slow yet determined step. The people who knew him turned to look after him, and those who did not stepped from before his way, moved by the virile dignity in his carriage, which suggested a man possessed by an absorbing motive.
Ardly looked a little abashed, and laughed half apologetically.
"I have been in harness all my life," he said, "and now I'm doing a little kicking against the traces."
A boyish humor rushed to the other's lips.
"In that case, I can make but one recommendation," he replied: "if you kick against the traces—kick hard."
He drew out his watch and paused a moment as if in doubt.
"Yes, I'll go to the hospital," he said; "there is a half-hour before luncheon," and he turned into East Twentieth Street on his way to Second Avenue. When he reached the hospital, he entered the elevator upon the first floor and ascended to the babies' ward. As he stepped upon the landing, a calm-faced nurse in a fresh uniform passed him, holding a glass of milk in her white, capable hand.
His eyes brightened as he saw her, and under the serene system of the place he felt a sense of restfulness steal over him like warmth.