In the afternoon he took her out for a walk. The snow had stopped; her father was up and dressed, and very much better, and Phebe was radiant. Her sky was clearing all at once. She charged the porter to call her in "just twenty minutes," for then she must give the medicine again. On their way out of the car Ludovic slipped a dollar into the porter's hand. Somehow that clever but corrupted functionary let the time slip by, to Phebe's innocent amazement. Could he have gone to sleep? Surely it must be more than twenty minutes since they had left the car.
"He's probably given the dose himself," said Ludovic. "A good porter is always three parts nurse."
"But he doesn't know which medicine to give."
"Oh, let them be," he said impatiently. "He's talking to your father, and making him laugh. He'll brace him up better than any medicine. They will call you fast enough if you are needed."
They walked the platform up and down in front of the section-house. They were watched, but Ludovic did not care for that now.
"Will you take my arm?"
She hesitated, in amused consideration of her own inexperience.
"Why, I never did take any one's arm that I remember. I don't think I could keep step with thee."
The intimate pronoun slipped out unawares.
"I will keep step with thee."