It snowed hard the next morning. The General, waking, found the day nurse in charge. Bronson came in to get him ready for his breakfast. There was about the old man an air of suppressed excitement. He hurried a little in his preparations for the General's bath. But everything was done with exactness, and it was not until the General was shaved and sitting up in his gorgeous mandarin robe that Bronson said, "I'd like to go out for an hour or two this morning, if you can spare me, sir—"
"In this snow? I thought you hated snow. You've always been a perfect pussy cat about the cold, Bronson."
"Yes, sir, but this is very important, sir."
The General ran his eye over the spruce figure.
"And you are all dressed up. I hope you are not going to be married, Bronson."
It was an old joke between them. Bronson was a pre-destined bachelor, and the General knew it.
But he liked to tease him.
"No, sir. I'll be back in time to look after your lunch, sir."
The General had been growing stronger, so that he spent several hours each day in his chair. When Bronson had gone, he rose and moved restlessly about the room. The day nurse cautioned him. "The Doctor doesn't want you to exert yourself, General Drake."
He was always courteous, but none the less he meant to have his own way. "Don't worry, Miss Martin. I'll take the responsibility."