"Most men would be impossible in such a situation," she said to her father, one morning in early August. "You would be a caricature, and, as for a man like Mr. Brenton—"
"Hush! Speak of angels!" her father warned her. Then, in another tone, he added, "Morning, Brenton. You're up early; aren't you?"
But Brenton's face refused to light in answer to the doctor's greeting.
"I've had a telegram from Boston," he said, and his accent was dull, monotonous. "Katharine is very ill, pneumonia."
"They have sent for you?"
"Yes. And to hurry."
Olive spoke impetuously.
"I am so sorry. But it may be better than you think."
He looked across at her, as if he had not been aware of her presence until she spoke.
"Good morning, Miss Keltridge," he said hastily. "Yes, it may be. In pneumonia there's always some hope, till the very last, I imagine. That is the reason," he turned back to the doctor; "the reason I've come to you. Can you go to Boston with me?"