“Then put them on again, and get another book.”
Dexter put on his boots slowly, laced them up, and then fetched himself another book.
He returned to his seat, yawning, and glanced at the doctor again.
Booz, booz, booz, boom—’m—’m.
A bluebottle had flown in through the open window, bringing with it the suggestion of warm sunshine, fields, gardens, flowers, and the blue sky and waving trees.
“Booz!” said the bluebottle, and it dashed away, leaving a profound silence, broken by the scratching of the doctor’s pen.
“I say,” cried Dexter excitedly; “is that your garden?”
“Yes, my boy, yes,” said the doctor, without looking up from his writing.
“May I go out in it?”
“Certainly, my boy. Yes,” said the doctor, without looking up, though there was the quick sound of footsteps, and, with a bound, Dexter was through the open French window, and out upon the lawn.