The Patriarch, evidently catching a movement of Madison's lips, was
gesticulating violently toward his ears, while he smiled half
tolerantly, half protestingly.

Madison nodded quickly and smiled deprecatingly in return.

"By Jove!" he said apologetically. "I always keep forgetting that you
can't hear. I was suggesting that perhaps you might like to go for a
walk--Mr. Higgins says it's a fine day." Madison picked up the slate and
in huge letters that sprawled from one end of the slate to the other
wrote the word: "WALK?"

The Patriarch rose from his chair with a pleased expression, and Madison
helped him solicitously to the door.

They passed out into the sunshine and headed for the beach--the
Patriarch, erect and strong, guiding himself with his hand on Madison's
arm.

Reaching the beach, the Patriarch paused and turned his face toward the
ocean, while he drew in great breaths of the invigorating air--and
Madison involuntarily stepped a little aside to look at the other
critically, as one might seek a vantage ground from which to view a
picture in all its variant lights and shades. Against the crested,
breaking surf, the fume-sprayed ledges of rock, the Patriarch stood out
a majestic, almost saintly figure--tall, stately, grand with the true
grandeur of simplicity, simple in dress, simple in attitude and mien,
patience, sweetness and trust illumining his face, his silver-crowned
head thrown back.