"Why, Morton Elder, how absurd! You have certainly seen me every day, and we've talked hours this very evening. This is no time for conversation, surely."
"The best time in the world," he assured her. "All the other times there are people about—dozens—hundreds—swarms! I want to talk to just you."
There were certainly no dozens or hundreds about now, but as certainly there was one, noting with keen and disapproving interest this midnight tête-à-tête. It did not last very long, and was harmless and impersonal enough while it lasted.
Vivian sat for a few moments, listening patiently while the young man talked of his discouragements, his hopes, his wishes to succeed in life, to be worthy of her; but when the personal note sounded, when he tried to take her hand in the semi-darkness, then her New England conscience sounded also, and she rose to her feet and left him.
"We'll talk about that another time," she said. "Now do be quiet and do not wake people up."
He stole upstairs, dutifully, and she crept softly back to her room and got into bed, without eliciting more than a mild grunt from sleepy Susie. Silence reigned at last in the house. Not for long, however.
At about half past twelve Dr. Bellair was roused from a well-earned sleep by a light, insistent tap upon her door. She listened, believing it to be a wind-stirred twig; but no, it was a finger tap—quiet—repeated. She opened the door upon Jeanne in her stocking feet.
"Your pardon, Mrs. Doctor," said the visitor, "but it is of importance. May I speak for a little? No, I'm not ill, and we need not a light."
They sat in the clean little office, the swaying cottonwood boughs making a changeful pattern on the floor.
"You are a doctor, and you can make an end to it—you must make an end to it," said Jeanne, after a little hesitation. "This young man—this nephew—he must not marry my young lady."