. Indeed, all their talk, next morning, was plainest platitude.
Instinctively each of them realized that the other needed a little time
to rally from the strain of the night before. Accordingly, though eight
o'clock found them breakfasting together in Opdyke's room, Ramsdell, in
attendance on his patient's numerous needs of help, acknowledged to
himself that he never saw a patient and a priest act like such a pair
of schoolboys squabbling over jam. Afterwards, Ramsdell dismissed and
sent off on an errand, Whittenden smoked, and Opdyke lay and watched
him in a contented reverie too deep for words. As he had said to
Brenton, once on a time, it was a relief to get even a bad matter out
and over. Later, he was quite well aware, he would take up the subject
with his friend once more; but the week was nearly all before them.
They could afford to rest a little, and let the healing silence fall
between them.

Indeed, in all the morning, they exchanged a scanty dozen sentences. An
occasional questioning glance, an inarticulate grunt of comprehension:
after their long night vigil, this was all for which either of them
felt inclined. In the meantime, Reed's face was losing somewhat of its
look of strain; Whittenden's clear eyes were growing gentler, yet
infinitely more full of courage. To both of them, the future was less
of a blank wall than it had seemed, the night before. Already, they
both were gathering a little more perspective.

Towards noon, though, Opdyke roused himself and spoke.

"This isn't going to do for you, Whittenden," he said, with decision.
"If you sit about like this, I'll have you tucked up beside me, within
the week. You've got to have some exercise. I'll set Ramsdell to
telephoning on your behalf, if you will call him. Yes, I can telephone;
but it's not too easy, so I generally pass the job on to him. Who'll
you have for your escort: Olive Keltridge, or Brenton?"

"Brenton?"

"Scott Brenton. Surely, I wrote you he was here."

Whittenden laughed.

"If you did, it never got put in. Most likely Ramsdell balked at the
spelling. You mean the Brenton that I married?"

"Yes, worse luck!"

The rector nodded.

"It's come to that; has it? I'm not too much surprised. What is he
doing here?"

"Preaching, of course."

"No of course about it. He was more a physicist than anything else, it
seemed to me. I had an idea he'd have gone in for teaching before now."

"Give him time."

"What do you mean?"

"I