CHAPTER XVII
SHE came in upon him seated in the brown oak Morris chair which had been "father's chair" as long as Marjorie could remember and which went back, even before the seven-room house on the fifty-foot lot in Irving Park. It went back, Marjorie had been told, to the epoch before her birth; for her mother and father had bought it together for their first living room in the cheap, tiny flat they had taken their first year; and no matter what discord it caused with other furnishings, always it must be in the room which was particularly father's. So it was here in this half study, half dressing room opening off his bedroom. How could he keep it near him now, Marjorie wondered. Why did he want to?
He wore his brown, business suit of tweed, of color becoming to his brown hair and brown eyes, and particularly so now that blood was again in his cheeks; he looked not only well this morning but almost vigorous in this suit which had been freshly pressed for him; his linen was fresh, of course; and this morning he had on shoes instead of slippers. Only a slight bulge under his waistcoat, not noticeable if you did not look for it, betrayed where he was still bandaged. The odor in the air told that he recently had been smoking one of the two cigarettes of his present daily allowance, but he had finished it and had been glancing through the newspaper which he dropped beside him as Marjorie came in.
