"Gerald's like that. So—so full of faith. And, Wheeler, he thinks he's going to get well and lead a useful life like they teach the blind to do. He reminds me of one of those Greek statues down at the Athens Café. You know—broken. That's it; he's a broken statue."
"Poor fellow! Poor fellow! Do something for him. Buy the finest fruit in the town for him. Send a case of wine. Two."
"I—I think I must be torn to pieces inside, Wheeler, the way I've cried."
"Poor little girl!"
"Wheeler?"
"Now, now," he said; "taking it so to heart won't do no good. It's rotten, I know, but worrying won't help. Got me right upset, too. Come, get it off your mind. Let's take a ride. Doll up; you look a bit peaked. Come now, and to-morrow we'll buy out the town for him."
"Wheeler?" she said. "Wheeler?"
"What?"
"Don't look, Wheeler. I've something else to ask of you—something queer."
"Now, now," he said, his voice hardening but trying to maintain a chiding note; "you know what you promised after the chinchilla—no more this year until—"