"Not in the least. On the contrary, he thrived on it. He liked it so well that he's eaten others as opportunity offered. The Judge is used to it now, and doesn't mind. I've been thinking that it might save time and trouble if, when I copied papers, I took an extra carbon copy for Fido. That pup literally eats everything. He's cut some of his teeth on a pair of rubbers that a client left in the office, and this noon he ate nearly half a box of matches."
"I suppose," remarked Barbara, "that he was hungry and wanted a light lunch."
"That'll be about all from you just now," laughed Roger. "You're going to get well all right—I can see that."
"Of course I'm going to get well. Who dared to say I wasn't?"
"Nobody that I know of. Do you want me to bring Fido to see you?"
"Some day," said Barbara, thoughtfully, "I would like to have you lead Fido up and down in front of the house, but I do not believe I would care to have him come inside."
So they talked for half an hour or more. The blind man sat silently, holding Barbara's hand, too happy to feel neglected or in any way slighted. From time to time her fingers tightened upon his in a reassuring clasp that took the place of words.
Acutely self-conscious, Roger's memory harked back continually to the last evening he and Barbara had spent together. In a way, he was grateful for North's presence. It measurably lessened his constraint, and the subtle antagonism that he had hitherto felt in the house seemed wholly to have vanished.
At last the blind man rose, still holding Barbara's hand. "It is late for old folks to be sitting up," he said.
"Don't go, Daddy. Make a song first, won't you? A little song for Roger and me?"