"What makes you say that?"
"We've tried specialists—cures. I've been half around the world with him."
The Doctor nodded. "It's hard to pull up at that age."
"My mother's life was spent in trying to help him. He's a dear old chap, really."
"There is, of course, the possibility that he may get a grip on himself."
Derry's languor left him. "Do you think there's the least hope of it? Frankly? No platitudes?"
"We are making some rather interesting experiments—psycho-analysis—things like that—"
He stood up. He was big and breezy. "What's the matter with you this morning? You ought to be up and out."
Derry flushed. "Nothing—much."
The Doctor sat down again. "I'd tell most men to take a cold shower and a two hours' tramp, but it's more than that with you—."
"It's a ease of suspended activity. I want to get into the war—"
"Why don't you?"
"I can't leave Dad. Surely you can see that."
"I don't see it. He must reap, every man must."
"But there's more than that. My mother tied me by a promise. And people are calling me a coward—even Dad thinks I am a slacker, and I can't say to him, 'If you were more than the half of a man I might be a whole one.'"
"Your mother couldn't have foreseen this war."
"It would have made no difference. Her world was centered in him. You know, of course, Doctor, that I wouldn't have spoken of this to anyone else—"
"My dear fellow, I am father confessor to half of my patients." The Doctor's eyes were kind. "My lips will be sealed. But if you want my advice I should throw the old man overboard. Let him sink or swim. Your life is your own."
"It has never been my own." He went to a desk and took out an envelope. "It's a rather sacred letter, but I want you to read it—I read it for the first time last night."
When at last the Doctor laid the letter down, Derry said very low, "Do you blame me?"
"My dear fellow; she had no right to ask it."
"But having asked—?"
"It is a moving letter, and you loved her—but I still contend she had no right to ask."
"I gave my sacred word."
"I question whether any promise should stand between a man and his country's need of him."
They faced each other. "I wonder—" Derry said, "I—I must think it over, Doctor."
"Give yourself a chance if you do. We can go too far in our sacrifice for others—." He resumed his brisk professional manner. "In the meantime you've a rather sick old gentleman on your hands. You'd better get a nurse."
CHAPTER VII
HILDA
The argument came up at breakfast two days before Thanksgiving. It was a hot argument. Jean beat her little hands upon the table. Hilda's hands were still, but it was an irritating stillness.
"What do you think, Daddy?"
"Hilda is right. There is no reason why we should go to extremes."
"But a turkey—."
"Nobody has said that we shouldn't have a turkey on Thanksgiving—not even Hoover." Hilda's voice was as irritating as her hands.
"Well, we have consciences, Hilda. And a turkey would choke me."
"You make so much of little things."
"Is it a little thing to sacrifice our appetites?"
"I don't think it is a very big thing." The office bell rang, and Hilda rose. "If I felt as you do I should sacrifice something more than things to eat. I'd go over there and nurse the wounded. I could be of real service. But you couldn't. With all your big ideas of patriotism you couldn't do one single practical thing."
It was true, and Jean knew that it was true, but she fired one more shot. "Then why don't you go?" she demanded fiercely.
"I may," Hilda said slowly. "I have been thinking about it. I haven't made up my mind."
Dr. McKenzie glanced at her in surprise. "I didn't dream you felt that way."
"I don't think I do mean it in the way you mean. I should go because there was something worth doing—not as a grandstand play."
She went out of the room. Jean stared after her.
The Doctor laughed. "She got you there, girlie."
"Yes, she did. Do you really think she intends to go, Daddy?"
"It is news to me."
"Good news?"
He shook his head. "She is a very valuable nurse. I should hate to lose her." He sat for a moment in silence, then stood up. "I shouldn't hold out for a turkeyless Thanksgiving if I were you. It isn't necessary."
"Are you taking Hilda's part, Daddy?"
"No, my dear, of course not." He came over and kissed her. "Will you ride with me this morning?"
"Oh, yes—how soon?"
"In ten minutes. After I see this patient."
In less time than that she was ready and waiting for him in her squirrel coat and hat and her little muff.
Her father surveyed her. "Such a lovely lady."
"Do you like me, Daddy?"
"What a question—I love you."
Safe in the car, with the glass screen shutting away the chauffeur, Jean returned to the point of attack.
"Hilda makes me furious, Daddy. I came to talk about her."
"I thought you came because you wanted to ride with me."
"Well, I did. But for this, too."
Over her muff, her stormy eyes surveyed him. "You think I am unreasonable about meatless and wheatless days. But you don't know. Hilda ignores them, Daddy—you should see the breadbox. And the other day she ordered a steak for dinner, one of those big thick ones—and it was Tuesday, and I happened to go down to the kitchen and saw it—and I told the cook that we wouldn't have it, and when I came up I told Hilda, and she laughed and said that I was silly.
"And I said that if she had that steak cooked I would not eat it, and I should ask you not to eat it, and she just stood with her hands flat on your desk, you know the way she does—I hate her hands—and she said that of course if I was going to make a fuss about it she wouldn't have the steak, but that it was simply a thing she couldn't understand. The steak was there, why not eat it? And I said it was because of the psychological effect on other people. And she said we were having too much psychology and not enough common sense in this war!
"Well, after that, I went to my Red Cross meeting at the church. I expected to have lunch there, but I changed my mind and came home. Hilda was at the table alone, and, Daddy, she was eating the steak, the whole of it—." She paused to note the effect of her revelation.
"Well?"
"She was eating it when all the