"You'd better stay in bed, Mr. Derry."
"I think I shall. How is Dad?"
"The nurse says he is holding his own."
"I am glad of that."
Bronson, feeding warm milk and toast to Muffin, ventured an opinion, "I am not sure that I like the nurse, sir."
"Why not?"
"She's not exactly a lady, and she's not exactly a nurse."
"I see." Derry, having glanced over a letter or two, had picked up an envelope with embossed thistles on the flap. "But she is rather pretty, Bronson."
"Pretty is as pretty does," sententiously.
Silence. Bronson looked across at the young man propped up among the pillows. He was rereading the letter with the thistles on the flap. The strained look had gone out of his eyes, and his lips were smiling.