“Do you wish me to go into brain fever before your eyes, just from worry?” Gussie demanded. “You must go!”
“Well, maybe, perhaps, to-morrow—”
“To-night—to-night,” said Augusta, faintly.
And Cyrus surrendered.
“Look under the bed before you go,” Gussie murmured.
Cyrus looked. “Nobody there,” he said, reassuringly; and went on tiptoe out of the darkened, cologne-scented room. But as he passed along the hall, and saw his father in his little cabin of a room, smoking placidly, and polishing his sextant with loving hands, Cyrus's heart reproached him.
“How's her head, Cy?” the Captain called out.
“Oh, better, I guess,” Cyrus said.—(“I'll be hanged if I speak to Dr. Lavendar!”)
“That's good,” said the Captain, beginning to hoist himself up out of his chair. “Going out? Hold hard, and I'll go 'long. I want to call on Mrs. North.”
Cyrus stiffened. “Cold night, sir,” he remonstrated.