Chapter Eleven.
Master Grayson goes for a Walk.
“Couldn’t have believed it,” said the doctor one evening, when a week had passed away. “It’s wonderful.” Helen smiled.
“A whole week, and the young dog’s behaviour has been even better than I could wish. Well, it’s very hopeful, and I am extremely glad, Helen, extremely glad.”
Helen said nothing, but she thought a good deal, and, among other things, she wondered how Dexter would have behaved if he had been left to himself. Consequently, she felt less sanguine than the doctor.
The fact was that she had given up everything to devote the whole of her time to the boy, thus taking care that he was hardly ever left to himself.
She read to him, and made him read to her, and battled hard to get him out of his schoolboy twang.
Taken by his bright, handsome face, and being clever with her brush, she had made him sit while she painted his likeness; that is, she tried to make him sit, but it was like dealing with so much quicksilver, and she was fain to give up the task as an impossibility after scolding, coaxing, and bribing, coming to the conclusion that the boy could not keep still.