Sally was apparently absorbed in talk with the Corporal, but she lifted her eyes quickly. “Blind, did you say? Harold Nixey?”
“Yes,” said Gerty. “Such a grievous thing.”
“Aye, it is that!” The voice of Josiah was heavy and somber.
Ethel hoped for his recovery.
Her father shook his head. “From what they tell me the sight is completely destroyed. I was with the lad yesterday.” It was clear from Josiah’s manner that he was moved by real feeling. “Wonderful pluck and cheerfulness. He knows he’ll never draw another elevation, but he pretends to that old mother of his that he’s going to get better—just to keep her going.”
“And you say, Father”—it was the slow precise voice of Sally—“that he can’t get better?”
“Not a dog’s chance from what Minyard the eye doctor tells me. It’s a gas those devils have been using.” The Mayor sighed. “He’s a good lad, is that. And he’d have gone far. Rose from nothing, as you might say, but in a year or two he’d have been at the top of the tree.” Josiah, whose gospel was “getting on,” again sighed heavily.
“I think I’ll go and see him, Father, if you’ll give me his address.” Again the slow, precise voice of Sally.
“Do. It’ll be a kindness. Number Fourteen, Torrington Avenue. The second turn on the right past the Brewery along Corfield Road. Pleased to have a visit from you, I’m sure. He talked about you a lot. His mother had read him the Tribune’s account of Thursday. He says he used to know you in London when he was studying at South Kensington.”