"Arrah, sorr, she'll never be kilt with feedin'! It's natural to the young, sorr—and she leppin' and skippin' and turnin' over and over like a young kid!—and how I'm to dress her in her clothes God only knows——"
"Janet! Stop your incessant chatter! Go upstairs and tell Miss Stephanie that I want her to dress immediately."
"I will, sorr."
Cleland looked at Meacham and the little faded old man looked back out of wise, tragic eyes which had seen hell—would see it again more than once before he finished with the world.
"What do you think of my little ward, Meacham?"
"It is better not to think, sir; it is better to just believe."
"What do you mean?"
"Just that, sir. If we really think we can't believe. It's pleasanter to hope. The young lady is very pretty, sir."
Cleland Senior always wore a fresh white waistcoat, winter and summer, and a white carnation in his button-hole. He put on and buttoned the one while Meacham adjusted the other.
They had been together many years, these two men. Every two or three months Meacham locked himself in his room and drank himself stupid. Sometimes he remained invisible for a week, sometimes for two weeks. Years ago Cleland had given up hope of helping him. Once, assisted by hirelings, he had taken Meacham by a combination of strategy and force to a famous institute where the periodical dipsomaniac is cured if he chooses to be.