Bronson put him to bed, settled Muffin among his blankets in a basket
by the hot water pipes, opened the windows wide, said "God bless you,"
and went away.

"Sweet dreams, Muffin," said Derry from the big bed.

The old dog whuffed discreetly.

It was their nightly ceremony.

The sleet came down in golden streaks against the glow of the street
lights. Derry lay watching it, and it was a long time before he slept.
Not since his mother's death had he been so weighed down with heaviness.

He kept seeing Jean with her head up, declining to dance with him; on
the high stool at the confectioner's, her eyes cold above her
chocolate; the English Captain and his contemptuous stare; Alma, basely
excusing him; Drusilla, in her red and blue and white--singing--!

He waked in the morning with a sore throat. Young Martin came in to
light the fire and draw the water for his bath. Later Bronson brought
his breakfast and the mail.

"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."