Perhaps I could attend classes of his if he lectures in London." Then the plotting David fell asleep at last and woke to hear the loud tapping on his door at eight o'clock, of Bridget, rather surprised to find the door locked, but entering (when he had garbed himself in his Norfolk jacket and opened the door), with hot water for shaving and a cup of tea.
It was a hot July morning, and while he dressed, the southern breeze came in through the open window scented by the roses and the lemon verbena growing against the wall.

His father was pacing up and down the hall and the verandah restlessly awaiting him, fearing lest the whole episode of the day before might not have been one of his waking dreams.

His failing sight made reading almost a torture and writing more a matter of feeling than visual perception.

Time therefore hung wearisomely on his hands; Bridget was not a good reader, besides being too busy a housekeeper to have time for it.
Had David really returned to him?
Would he sometimes read aloud and sometimes write his letters, or even the finish of his History?
Too good to be true! But there was David coming down the stairs, greeting him with tender affection.

"Read and write for you, father?
Of course! But before I go back to London--and unfortunately I _must_ go back early in August--I'm going to take you to see an oculist--Bristol or Clifton perhaps--and get your sight restored." After breakfast, however, the father decided he must take David round the village, to see and be seen.