CHAPTER XVII
THE WHITE CAT
Derry, going quietly to his room that night, did not stop at the
General's door. He did not want to speak to Hilda, he did not want to
speak to anyone, he wanted to be alone with his thoughts of Jean and
that perfect ride with her through the snow.
He was, therefore, a little impatient to find Bronson waiting up for
him.
"I thought I told you to go to bed, Bronson."
"You did, sir, but--but I have something to tell you."
"Can't it wait until morning?"
"I should like to say it now, Mr. Derry." The old man's eyes were
anxious. "It's about your father--"
"Father?"
"Yes. I told you I didn't like the nurse."
"Miss Merritt? Well?"
"Perhaps I'd better get you to bed, sir. It's a rather long story, and
you'd be more comfortable."
"You'd be more comfortable, you mean, Bronson." The impatient note had
gone out of Derry's voice. Temporarily he pigeon-holed his thoughts of
Jean, and gave his attention to this servant who was more than a
servant, more even than a friend. To Derry, Bronson wore a sort of
halo, like a good old saint in an ancient woodcut.
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