"Good Lord!"
And for the remaining few moments of the drive, Dr. Mary sat chuckling.
"Here we are." Jean led the way toward the cool marble entrance of a huge apartment house facing the Hudson. Young mothers in summer white sat on camp stools, doing embroidery in the shade of the high walls, under the trees that lined the Drive, and in the vacant lot across the street. They chatted and moved white perambulators with the tips of their white canvas shoes. Fat white babies slept under dainty white coverlets. Older children in white played in the earth.
Dr. Mary stopped in the vestibule. "It looks like miles of them. I've never seen so many baby buggies at once in my life."
"Mary, that sight has done more to inspire me with a love of work than any other thing I know. Whenever I feel like sneaking a day I just take one look out there and jump into my office clothes."
"I should think you might. Do they keep it up all day?"
"All day, every day, from spring till fall. They must sew miles of scallops. Wait till you see the last rites. About six the husbands come along; they're all young and rather slight, wear blue serge and straw hats. They all look exactly alike. Each one detaches his special piece of white property and off they go. Behold the female backbone of our nation!"
"It makes me homesick for my frowsy crab-fishers and those poor bowlegged mites that crawl over the hills alone."
As the key turned in the lock, Martha Norris rose from her chair by the window where she had been reading in the green-gold light that slanted up under the window awnings. Dr. Mary took the outstretched hand in hers.
"I suppose you were surprised, but not more than I was myself. When it came right down to it, I started at a moment's notice."