“Really?”
“Yes; I say, David, why the devil do we feel his leadership the way we do? We can think all around him. We’ve gone fifty years ahead of him.”
“Funny. I’ve been puzzling over that, myself.”
“Suppose men of action aren’t necessarily thinkers. We turn around an idea, see the complexities; a decision with us is a mental process of elimination. With him, it is instantaneous—an instinct; the primitive. That’s why I’d have thought he’d strangle her.”
“Family feeling counts.”
“Yes, you’re right; felt that as we three were sitting here; felt it strong. And a year ago I would have laughed at it. It’s so. I may champ at the bit, but I’m one of you Littledales, for all that.”
Toinon brought in the coffee, slipped a pillow under his shoulders, and went back into the kitchen. He looked very like the condottieri of the Middle Ages he described, as he sat sunk in his chair, the dressing-gown loose on his thin frame, white bony hands locked under his chin, deep eyes and stubbled hair, gaunt and relentless.
“Davy, it would be queer if I pulled through, after all.”
I looked up in surprise.
“Course you’re going to! What an idea! Why, you took my breath away when I came in—”