No answer. Poor little Doris. She stroked her face. Life had used her differently. She felt this. She knew nothing of what Doris had done or dreamed, but the staring eyes frightened her and she understood.
George frequently called her queer. Yet George was, in a way, proud of her. He used to seek Doris out. And many people had talked of her as a very unusual young woman. But life had used her curiously, not like other girls. Perhaps it was a man. She turned toward the figure in the corner. He was standing holding a pipe to his mouth. What if it was a man? Scandal. Mrs. Basine sighed. What was scandal? It was only a way of looking at facts. She would take her home with her. Poor little Doris living alone in this place and sitting here night after night dreaming of things. That was sad.
"Listen dear, do you want something?"
No answer. The doctor said he would be back after dinner and bring a nurse. She would ask him if Doris could be moved and then take her home. It was growing darker in the room. Someone was knocking. She opened the door. It was another man. He came in and then paused.
"Is Doris ill?" he asked.
Mrs. Basine nodded.
"I am her mother," she said.
Levine looked at her and introduced himself.
"You know Mr. Lindstrum," she added. Levine stared at the poet in the shadows and said, "Yes, I know him."
"How do you do," said Lindstrum slowly.