Maurice shook his head: "I'm all right. Mrs. Dale will you step in here? I want to speak to you a minute." As Lily preceded him into the dining room, he said, quickly, to the doctor, "I want to tell her not to worry about money, you know." To Lily—when he closed the door—he was briefly ruthless: "I'll pay for everything. But I just want to say, if he dies—"
She screamed out, "No—no!"
"He won't," he said, angrily; "but if he does, you are to say his father's dead. Do you understand? Say his name was—what did you call it?—William?"
"I don't know. My God! what difference does it make? Call it anything! John."
"Well, say his father was John Dale of New York, and he's dead. Promise me!"
She promised—"Honest to God!" her face was furrowed with fright. As they went back to the doctor Maurice had a glimpse of Lily's bedroom, where Jacky, rolled in a blanket, was vociferating that he would not be carried downstairs by the orderly.
"Oh, Sweety," Lily entreated; "see, nice pretty gentleman! Let him carry you?"
"Won't," said Jacky.
At which Maurice said, decidedly: "Behave yourself, Jacobus! I'll carry you."
Instantly Jacky stopped crying: "You throwed away the present I give you," he said; "but," he conceded, "you may carry me."