With the solid comfort which comes to a man when he returns to find his
affairs all going well, Roger worked on until five o'clock, and then he
started for his home.
Deborah had not yet come in, and a deep silence reigned in the house. He
looked through the rooms downstairs, and with content he noticed how little
had been altered. His beloved study had not been touched. On the third
floor, in the large back room, he found John comfortably installed. There
were gay prints upon the walls, fresh curtains at the windows, a mandolin
lying on a chair. And Roger, glancing down at the keen glad face of his
partner, told himself that the doctor who had said this lad would die was a
fool.
"These doctors fool themselves often," he thought.
Deborah and Allan had the front room on the floor below. Roger went in, and
for a moment he stood looking about him. How restful and how radiant was
this large old-fashioned chamber, so softly lighted, waiting. Through a
passageway lined with cupboards he went into his room at the back. Deborah
had repapered it, but with a pattern so similar that Roger did not notice
the change. He only felt a vague freshness here, as though even this old
chamber, too, were making a new start in life. And he felt as though he
were to live here for years. Slowly he unpacked his trunk and took a bath
and dressed at his leisure. Then he heard Deborah's voice at the door.
"Come in, come in!" he answered.
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