"Surely, my child, glad to have you," said Mrs. Pettigrew affectionately. "Better try my bed—there's room a-plenty."
The girl lay long with those old arms about her, crying quietly. Her grandmother asked no questions, only patted her softly from time to time, and said, "There! There!" in a pleasantly soothing manner. After some time she remarked, "If you want to say things, my dear, say 'em—anything you please."
In the still darkness they talked long and intimately; and the wise old head straightened things out somewhat for the younger one.
"Doctors don't realize how people feel about these matters," said Mrs. Pettigrew. "They are so used to all kinds of ghastly things they forget that other folks can't stand 'em. She was too hard on you, dearie."
But Vivian defended the doctor. "Oh, no, Grandma. She did it beautifully. And it hurt her so. She told me about her own—disappointment."
"Yes, I remember her as a girl, you see. A fine sweet girl she was too. It was an awful blow—and she took it hard. It has made her bitter, I think, perhaps; that and the number of similar cases she had to cope with."
"But, Grandma—is it—can it be as bad as she said? Seventy-five per cent! Three-quarters of—of everybody!"
"Not everybody dear, thank goodness. Our girls are mostly clean, and they save the race, I guess."
"I don't even want to see a man again!" said the girl with low intensity.