For days before they started Lucy went about in a frenzy of nervous energy, writing out menus for Minnie for a month ahead, counting and recounting David's collars and handkerchiefs, cleaning and pressing his neckties. In the harness room in the stable Mike polished boots until his arms ached, and at the last moment with trunks already bulging, came three gift dressing-gowns for David, none of which he would leave behind.
“I declare,” Lucy protested to Dick, “I don't know what's come over him. Every present he's had since he was sick he's taking along. You'd think he was going to be shut up on a desert island.”
But Dick thought he understood. In David's life his friends had had to take the place of wife and children; he clung to them now, in his age and weakness, and Dick knew that he had a sense of deserting them, of abandoning them after many faithful years.
So David carried with him the calendars and slippers, dressing-gowns and bed-socks which were at once the tangible evidence of their friendliness and Lucy's despair.
Watching him, Dick was certain nothing further had come to threaten his recovery. Dick carefully inspected the mail, but no suspicious letter had arrived, and as the days went on David's peace seemed finally re-established. He made no more references to Johns Hopkins, slept like a child, and railed almost pettishly at his restricted diet.
“When we get away from Dick, Lucy,” he would say, “we'll have beef again, and roast pork and sausage.”
Lucy would smile absently and shake her head.
“You'll stick to your diet, David,” she would say. “David, it's the strangest thing about your winter underwear. I'm sure you had five suits, and now there are only three.”
Or it was socks she missed, or night-clothing. And David, inwardly chuckling, would wonder with her, knowing all the while that they had clothed some needy body.
On the night before the departure David went out for his first short walk alone, and brought Elizabeth back with him.