CHAPTER
XXVIII
Tue night was warm, moist, astir with vernal growth, The trees whispered tender secrets to each other. Flowers were being born in the grasses. Clouds formed a light coverlet above an earth too fecund of dreams to sleep soundly. Dee emerged from the side door of the James house and moved down the cedar path, soft as a wraith. The still mansion oppressed her. For two weeks she had hardly stirred beyond earshot of her husband’s petulant, pathetic need of her. Her young blood craved air, the expanses, the sense of space and quiet. Definite verdict had been pronounced that afternoon upon T. Jameson James by Dr. Osterhout, after a careful résumé of the case with the consulting surgeon. He'll last indefinitely. As long, one might say, as he has the will to live. Five years... Ten. Twenty, if he can stand it. Much depends on you, Dee.” “Will he get better?” Osterhout moved uneasily. “Better? Stronger, a little. Not really better. A wheel-chair existence at best.” “T can’t conceive of it for Jim.” “Fell adjust himself to it after a fashion. People do. But he’ll be difficult, dam’ difficult. Have you thought any more of his offer to release you?” “No. And I won’t think of it.” “J wouldn’t have supposed you would, being you. Youw’re a good sort, Dee. And a good sport.” He rubbed his forehead with a stubby forefinger. “As for your owp status—you want me to be frank, don’t you?” 265
