There were many turns in the road, and the mud was slippery. He was glad when at last he turned into his own driveway. He hustled Frankie out of the car and up the steps, burst open the front door, and entered his own hall.
And there was a girl.
Now, if Dr. Joe had been the sort of man to be overcome by the sight of a pretty[Pg 263] face, he would never have been a bachelor at thirty-three; but he wasn’t that sort of man, and it was not the prettiness of this girl that made so great an impression upon him. It was the look on her face.
He had never seen quite that look on a woman’s face before, that magical and beautiful look of welcome. She came hurrying down the hall, and her step was eager, her eyes were shining. She was smiling and holding out her hands; and Dr. Joe felt that he had, for the first time since he could remember, really come home. He didn’t know or care who she was, or how she had got there, but only that she seemed somehow familiar and dear, and he was happy because he found her here.
He would have taken her outstretched hands—but the boy was ahead of him. Frankie ran up to the girl.
“Hello, Molly!” he said casually.
Dr. Joe saw then that the smile and the welcome and all the magic had been for Frankie, not for him. The girl turned to him, and she was a different girl—a polite, composed young creature.
“I’ve come to take Frankie home,” she said. “Thank you very much, doctor.”
For a moment he was too disappointed, too dejected, to answer. He was only a doctor; people were glad to see him only because they thought he could make them well. Nobody had ever looked at him as Molly looked at Frankie, and nobody ever would. What was there waiting for him when he got home? A lot of patients who wouldn’t give him time to eat his meals, and Mrs. MacAdams. His house was dark and dusty and cheerless, and the aroma of that stew still lingered in the air.
“Don’t mention it!” he said gloomily.