Ruth looked up at him admiringly. He was a tall well proportioned man, a little past middle age. His features were noble, his bearing dignified. In spite of the loss of memory, his speech and acts expressed a refinement which had become second nature to him.
"Come, Daddy," she said, taking him by the arm, "let's go. Aunt Clara will be waiting dinner for us."
Aunt Clara was on the porch waiting for them when they arrived.
"It's about time you were coming, the dinner is getting cold."
"We are here 'ready to go,'" said Ruth, laughing, "and I have a wonderful appetite that is craving some of your chicken salad."
"My dear," said Aunt Clara, "you are not going to be disappointed tonight. I have the salad prepared."
"Fine! Doesn't that sound good, Daddy?"
"Yes—if I can remember the other numbers."
"I was talking about dinner. Aunt Clara has chicken salad for dinner. Isn't that fine?"
"Yes, chicken salad is all right."