"Of course, of course, and without delay. Well, I'll take care of the little chap."
"I know you will, better than I could." David lifted his eyes to his old friend's, then turned them away. "I feel him to be a sacred trust." Again he paused. "It—would take a—long time to go to her first?"
"To—her?" For the instant the old man had forgotten Cassandra. Not so David.
"My wife. It will be desperately hard—for her."
"Yes, yes. But your uncle, you know, died of grief, and your m—mother—"
"I know—so the lawyer said. Now at last we'll read mother's letter. He wondered, I suppose, that I didn't look at it when he gave it to me, but I felt conscience-stricken. I've been so filled with my life down there—the peace, the blessed peace and happiness—that I have neglected her—my own mother. I couldn't open and read it with that man's eyes on me. No, no. Stay here, I beg of you, stay. You are different. I want you."
He opened his mother's letter and slowly read it, then passed it to his friend and, rising, walked to the window and stood gazing down into the square. Autumn leaves were being tossed and swirled in dancing flights, like flocks of brown and yellow birds along the street. The sky was overcast, with thin hurrying clouds, and the feeling of autumn was in the air, but David's eyes were blurred, and he saw nothing before him. The doctor's voice broke the silence with sudden impulse.
"In this she speaks as if she knew nothing about your marriage."
"I told you I had neglected her," cried David, contritely.
"But, m—man alive! why—why in the name of all the gods—"