There was just the one saving quality--his mental alertness. All his life
he had had insatiable intellectual curiosity. It had kept him from wasting
his time at play when he was a boy. It had kept him from plunging deeply
into dissipation when youth was hot in his veins. It was now keeping him
from the sluggard's fate.
* * * * *
On the last day of January--six weeks after his thirtieth birthday--he came
home earlier than usual, as they were going to the theatre and were to dine
at seven. He found Alice in bed and the doctor sitting beside her.
"You'll have to get some one else to go with you, I'm afraid," she said
with good-humoured resignation, a trifle over-acted. "My cold is worse and
the doctor says I must stay in bed."
"Nothing serious?" Howard asked anxiously, for her cheeks were flaming.
"Oh, no. Just the cold. And I am taking care of myself."
He accompanied the doctor to the door of the apartment. At the threshold
the doctor whispered: "Make some excuse and come to my office. I wish to
see you particularly."
He grew pale. "Don't let her see," urged the doctor. He went back to Alice,
sick at heart. "I must go out and arrange for some one else to do the play
for me," he said. "I shall spend the evening with you.
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