The advent of letters covered Mrs. Barrimore’s confusion. One was for Philip. He scrutinized the handwriting with an odd expression on his face.
At last he said: “If I did not know Dan Webster so well, I should imagine he had been drinking! Look at the unsteady, wavering writing, mother!”
“Yes, it is unsteady,” she answered. “Open it, Philip. Perhaps he is ill.”
“Oh!” ejaculated the young man, as he read the opening passage. “Poor Dan!”
“What is it?” came from Mrs. Barrimore and uncle in a duet.
“His eyes have gone wrong. He is to do no painting for a long time. He is down in the depths,” said Philip. “Poor Dan! and his people, who have never approved of his taking up art as a profession, say it is a judgment on him! He says there is no reason to fear loss of sight if he follows the doctor’s directions rigidly. It is necessary to take entire rest, and till the inflammation is subdued he must wear a green shade. He has unfortunately very little money, but, all the same, he says he shall take a room somewhere to be away from nagging and reproaches.”
Uncle Robert jumped up and knocked over his cup (just replenished by his sister). “Why can’t he come here?” he inquired.
“There will be Philip’s room,” added Mrs. Barrimore. “I will write to-day and ask him. The garden is so restful, and he can walk on the sea-front with you, Robert, and sit and listen to the band.”
“And I can read to him,” rejoined Uncle Robert. “I shall go out and telegraph.”
He was marching off through the window to carry out his project when his nephew reminded him that he was wearing no collar.