modified by his thought of her. She went over and put a wrinkled
hand on his arm.

"You look happy, Dick," she said wistfully.

"I am happy, Aunt Lucy," he replied, and bending over, kissed her.

On Wednesday he was in a state of alternating high spirits and
periods of silence. Even Minnie noticed it.

"Mr. Dick's that queer I hardly know how to take him." she said to
Lucy. "He came back and asked for noodle soup, and he put about all
the hardware in the kitchen on him and said he was a knight in armor.
And when I took the soup in he didn't eat it."

It was when he was ready to go out that Lucy's fears were realized.
He came in, as always when anything unusual was afoot, to let her
look him over. He knew that she waited for him, to give his tie a
final pat, to inspect the laundering of his shirt bosom, to pick
imaginary threads off his dinner coat.

"Well?" he said, standing before her, "how's this? Art can do no
more, Mrs. Crosby."

"I'll brush your back," she said, and brought the brush. He stooped
to her, according to the little ceremony she had established, and she
made little dabs at his speckless back. "There, that's better."

He straightened.