and the wide-brimmed gray felt hat, here was a man who had found
his style in the seventies of the last century, and thenceforth
kept it. Files of old magazines of that period might show him,
in woodcut, as, "Type of Boston Merchant"; Nast might have drawn
him as an honest statesman. He was eighty, hale and sturdy, not
aged; and his quick blue eyes, still unflecked, and as brisk as a
boy's, saw everything.

"Well, well, well!" he said, heartily. "You haven't lost any of
your good looks since last week, I see, Miss Alice, so I guess
I'm to take it you haven't been worrying over your daddy. The
young feller's getting along all right, is he?"

"He's much better; he's sitting up, Mr. Lamb. Won't you come
in?"

"Well, I don't know but I might." He turned to call toward twin
disks of light at the curb, "Be out in a minute, Billy"; and the
silhouette of a chauffeur standing beside a car could be seen to
salute in response, as the old gentleman stepped into the hall.
"You don't suppose your daddy's receiving callers yet, is he?"

"He's a good deal stronger than he was when you were here last
week, but I'm afraid he's not very presentable, though."

"'Presentable?'" The old man echoed her jovially. "Pshaw! I've
seen lots of sick folks. _I_ know what they look like and how
they love to kind of nest in among a pile of old blankets and
wrappers. Don't you worry about THAT, Miss Alice, if you think
he'd like to see me."