``Well, there's time, in any case. We'll wait till you're stronger and then talk about it.'' She put the slipper neatly by its mate at the foot of the bed.

Scotty said, ``Okay.''

This time Rachel kissed him lightly on the forehead. Scotty was pleased.

His father was a constant visitor. Scotty would hear the front door in the evening and then his father's deep slow voice; it floated up the stairs.

``How's Scotty?''

And Rachel's or Virginia's reply: ``Better. He's getting plenty of rest.''

``Is his appetite improved?'' Or: ``Does he get exercise?''

The exchange was almost invariable, and Scotty, in his bed, could hear every word of it. He never smiled. It required an energy he no longer possessed to be satirical about his father. His father would come upstairs and stand self-consciously at the foot of the bed and look at his son. After a pause, during which he studied Scotty's face as if Scotty were not there and could not study him too, Mr. McKinley would ask the same questions he had asked downstairs.

Scotty would reply softly and his father, apologetically, would ask him to repeat.

``I'm eating more,'' he would say. Or: ``I walk around the house a lot.''

``Perhaps you should get out a little.''

``I'm not supposed to yet.'' He was not irritated. He did not mind the useless, kindly questions. He looked at the lined face with vague interest; he felt he was noting it, as if it were something he might think about when he grew stronger.