In an instant Lloyd was at his side, kneeling by the bed.  She caught one of the great, gnarled hands, seamed and corded and burning with the fever.  “Never, never, dearest; never so long as I shall live.”

IX.

When Adler heard Bennett’s uncertain steps upon the stairs and the sound of Lloyd’s voice speaking to him and urging that there was no hurry, and that he was to take but one step at a time, he wheeled swiftly about from the windows of the glass-room, where he had been watching the October breeze stirring the crimson and yellow leaves in the orchard, and drew back his master’s chair from the breakfast table and stood behind it expectantly, his eyes watching the door.

Lloyd held back the door, and Bennett came in, leaning heavily on Dr. Pitts’s shoulder.  Adler stiffened upon the instant as if in answer to some unheard bugle-call, and when Bennett had taken his seat, pushed his chair gently to the table and unfolded his napkin with a flourish as though giving a banner to the wind.  Pitts almost immediately left the room, but Lloyd remained supervising Bennett’s breakfast, pouring his milk, buttering his toast, and opening his eggs.

“Coffee?” suddenly inquired Bennett.  Lloyd shook her head.

“Not for another week.”

Bennett looked with grim disfavour upon the glass of milk that Lloyd had placed at his elbow.

“Such slop!” he growled.  “Why not a little sugar and warm water, and be done with it?  Lloyd, I can’t drink this stuff any more.  Why, it’s warm yet!” he exclaimed aggrievedly and with deep disgust, abruptly setting down the glass.

“Why, of course it is,” she answered; “we brought the cow here especially for you, and the boy has just done milking her—­and it’s not slop.”

“Slop! slop!” declared Bennett.  He picked up the glass again and looked at her over the rim.

“I’ll drink this stuff this one more time to please you,” he said.  “But I promise you this will be the last time.  You needn’t ask me again.  I have drunk enough milk the past three weeks to support a foundling hospital for a year.”

Invariably, since the period of his convalescence began, Bennett made this scene over his hourly glass of milk, and invariably it ended by his gulping it down at nearly a single swallow.

Adler brought in the mail and the morning paper.  Three letters had come for Lloyd, and for Bennett a small volume on “Recent Arctic Research and Exploration,” sent by his publisher with a note to the effect that, as the latest authority on the subject, Bennett was sure to find it of great interest.  In an appendix, inserted after the body of the book had been made up, the Freja expedition and his own work were briefly described.  Lloyd put her letters aside, and, unfolding the paper, said, “I’ll read it while you eat your breakfast.  Have you everything you want?  Did you drink your milk—­all of it?” But out of the corner of her eye she noted that Adler was chuckling behind the tray that he held to his face, and with growing suspicion she leaned forward and peered about among the breakfast things.  Bennett had hidden his glass behind the toast-rack.