Reaction.... Tom was contrite. He watched David sharply, aloofly even, then did some good thing for him. Some intimate thing none but a loving eye could have devised: and with a quiet tact. So there was David more bewildered than before. But not David alone. He understood no less than Tom. The storm of their relationship seemed moving toward no issue.
David was sick—a little sick.
“You shan’t go downtown, to-day, do you hear!” commanded Tom. “This is a busy day for me, but if you don’t give me your word you’ll stay home, I’ll stay home myself to make you.”
He went out and telephoned to David’s office. He came back with a doctor. Tonsillitis.
Tom nursed him. Mrs. Lario found there was really little she could do. David had an assortment of dainties to sip. “This won’t hurt your throat.” He had books. He had a splendid array of cushions architected for his back to prop him for reading.
Mrs. Deane came and found her nephew lying happy in the large front room.
“More sun,” Tom explained. “It was no job moving the bed.”
“It is wonderful, child, how Mr. Rennard nurses you. I would no more dream of interfering.... You do not appear to be very busy downtown, Mr. Rennard.”
Tom laughed. “Oh, no, Mrs. Deane. Nothing to do at all. But do not give me away.”
David understood.