“Oh, doctor, I’ve been rushing after you for miles and miles!”
It was little Mavis Borrowby, daughter of an old patient. Always in the past Andrew had taken Mavis for granted as part of old Borrowby’s background. He was quite disconcerted to see her, this spring evening, as a detached individuality, and a very vivid one.
She took his arm and hung on it, looking up into his face with babyish violet eyes.
“Oh, doctor!” she cried. “I went to your lecture. It was simply wonderful! But it depressed me awfully. Please let me walk along with you and ask you some questions!”
“Child, you shouldn’t go to my lectures,” said Andrew indulgently. “You’re too young. They’re not for you.”
“Oh, but they are, doctor! Why, [Pg 8]I’m engaged, you know—at least, I was engaged, but I sha’n’t be any longer. I wouldn’t for worlds do all that harm to a helpless man. I’m going to tell Edward so to-night.”
Andrew was a little taken aback. He said something about thinking things out for oneself—not accepting another person’s ideas.
“Oh, no!” said little Mavis confidently. “I know you can think ever so much better than me. I like to get my ideas from wonderful men like you!”
The innocent, naive, violet-eyed little thing touched him with pity. What, he thought, was there in life for her except marriage? He couldn’t imagine her engaged in any work, any profession, any art. Would it not perhaps be better if some man were enslaved and sacrificed for the sake of this poor little baby-girl?
“Look here, Mavis,” he said; “this won’t do. You mustn’t throw over this fellow, you know, without a great deal of serious reflection. You might ruin your life and his, too.”