“I’m always afraid of that in winter,” she said. “That siege Ted had once weakened him so. That’s why I try to keep him from exposing himself.”
“Dinner is served,” was announced at the door.
“Let’s all march in,” Theodore suggested.
“But first we must all wash our hands,” said the mother. “Run along upstairs. Ted, leave your hat and coat up there. I’m not sure I want you outside today.”
“The outside air can’t hurt him,” demurred Roosevelt, when the troop had pelted off up the stairs.
“You aren’t sure of that. You can be too insistent about toughening up Ted, as the doctor reminded you. After all, you were a frail child yourself.”
“But my life in Dakota toughened me. Now I never have a pain and rarely a cold,” he insisted.
“You were grown then. Give your sons a chance to grow, Theodore.”
“I suppose you are right. You usually are. Anyway, this is going to be a dour day, although those clouds show a few signs of thinning and letting the sun shine through.” He studied the sky from the window.
They went in to dinner then and there was the usual argument about who should say grace. Ethel won and hurried through the little verse, conscious of impatient looks from her brothers, moving their eyes though their heads were bowed.