"How on earth have you managed not to be recognized?" Dr. Bellair inquired after a few moments.
Jeanne laughed bitterly. "That was eight years ago; he was but a boy—gay and foolish, with the others. What does a boy know?... Also, at that time I was blonde, and—of a difference."
"I see," said the doctor, "I see! That's pretty straight. You know personally of that time, and you know the record of those others. But that was a long time ago."
"I have heard of him since, many times, in such company," said Jeanne. They sat in silence for some time. A distant church clock struck a single deep low note. The woman rose, stood for a hushed moment, suddenly burst forth with hushed intensity: "You must save her, doctor—you will! I was young once," she went on. "I did not know—as she does not. I married, and—that came to me! It made me a devil—for awhile. Tell her, doctor—if you must; tell her about my boy!"
She went away, weeping silently, and Dr. Bellair sat sternly thinking in her chair, and fell asleep in it from utter weariness.
CHAPTER VIII.
A MIXTURE.
In poetry and painting and fiction we see
Such praise for the Dawn of the Day,
We've long since been convinced that a sunrise must be
All Glorious and Golden and Gay.