It was in March that I made Perry see a doctor. "Nothing organic," was
Perry's report. Beyond that he was silent. So I went to the doctor
myself.
"What's the matter with him?"
"He is not getting the proper nourishment," the doctor told me. "He must
have plenty of milk and eggs, and good red meat."
It sounded easy enough, but it wasn't. Rosalie couldn't grasp the fact
that diet in Perry's case was important. For the first time I saw a
queer sort of obstinacy in her.
"Oh, my poor Peer!" And she laughed lightly. "Do they want to make a
stuffed pig of you?"
Well, you simply couldn't get it into her head that Perry needed the
bread that she sold for hyacinths. She cooked steaks and chops for him,
and served them with an air of protest that took away his appetite.
Of course there remained the eggs and milk, but he didn't like them.
What Perry really needed was three good meals a day according to the
tradition of his mother's home.
But he couldn't have them. His mother was dead, and the home broken up.
The little bungalow, with its old brocades, its Venetian glass, its
Florentine carvings, its sun-dial and its garden, was the best that life
could offer him. And I must confess that he seemed to think it very
good. He adored Rosalie. When in moments of rebellion against her
seeming indifference I hinted that she lacked housewifely qualities he
smiled and shifted the subject abruptly.