“I’m glad,” said Dr. Brent, turning toward the window. “Encourage him to work when the smart is over.”
He declined Emma’s offered meal, and prepared for departure, writing on a bit of paper what he wished to have done for Jarlsen. When he rose, hat in hand, Emma spoke to him. Her voice had a thrill of pride in it, and her high spirit lent a dignity to the gaudy finery intended to decorate her awkward frock.
“Doctor,” she said, “will you set a minute?”
She entered the lean-to, erect and elastic. Three minutes passed while the crowd asked the doctor questions, which he answered in words of such strangeness to their ears that they enjoyed all the sensations of those who communicate with spirits. They laughed at his least word, and he, perceiving it, darkened his sayings the further.
When Emma returned, her face was set and her cheeks flamed, so that their heat alone drew the tears to her eyes. Her hands shook, and hardly held the bit of soiled paper and the stumpy pencil that she carried. “Will you tell me your name and address?” she asked of the doctor.
A sigh broke from her lips that tried not to be a groan.
Black looked at her, and the colour flew from his face. He said afterward that his heart beat so that he thought some one knocked on the door. He knew what had happened.
So did the doctor. “My accounts are payable in May,” he said, being kind, and knowing Soot City to be ignorant.
Emma smiled again, and, with the patronizing manner that is the outcome of complete shyness, said, “Well, you’re a real good doctor.”
And so, with a slight constriction of his kindly heart, he shook her hand and departed.