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.

"I think I'll get up."

"Changed your mind, sir?"

"Yes." He threw back the covers. "I've a thousand things to do."

But there was just one thing which he was going to do which stood out
beyond all others. Neither life nor death nor flood nor fire should
keep him from presenting himself at four o'clock at Jean McKenzie's
door, in response to the precious note which in a moment had changed
the world for him.