“Yes” said Miriam gravely.
“You are, nevertheless, the only intimate woman friend to whom just now she has access.”
“I’ve done little things for her. I couldn’t do much.”
“You were sorry for her.” Mr. Taunton was studying her face and waiting.
“Well—I don’t know—she” she consulted the fire intensely, looking for the truth; “she seems to me too strong for that.” Light! Women have no pity on women ... they know how strong women are; a sick man is more helpless and pitiful than a sick woman; almost as helpless as a child. People in order of strength ... women, men, children. This man without his worldly props, his money and his job and his health had not a hundredth part of the strength of a woman ... nor had Dr. Densley....
“I think she fascinated me.”
Mr. Taunton gathered himself together in his chair and sat very upright.
“She has an exceptional power of inspiring affection—affection and the desire to give her the help she so sorely needs.”
“Perhaps that is it” said Miriam judicially. But you are very much mistaken in calling on me for help ... ‘domestic work and the care of the aged and the sick’—very convenient—all the stuffy nerve-racking never-ending things to be dumped on to women—who are to be openly praised and secretly despised for their unselfishness—I’ve got twice the brain power you have. You are something of a scholar; but there is a way in which my time is more valuable than yours. There is a way in which it is more right for you to be tied to this woman than for me. Your reading is a habit, like most men’s reading, not a quest. You don’t want it disturbed. But you are kinder than I am. You are splendid. It will be awful—you don’t know how awful yet—poor little man.
“I think it has been so in my case if you will allow me to tell you.”