It was a mad idea. Her daughter a "female doctor"! Never!
"Not—not female doctor," I protested. "That does sound——"
"Well, you see for yourself how the very sound of it——"
I assured her that I didn't dislike the sound of "medical woman." But there was no necessity to emphasise "woman" at all; the only thing important was whether the person was qualified to treat the sick. People did not feel they had to say male doctor. "Doctor is enough."
I was told that the reason no one said male doctor was because "doctor" was male, and everyone understood that.
I left the point, and I pleaded my main cause with all my might. I hadn't any accomplishments—no music, nothing. "I'm not the decorative one, and I like 'doing things'; plain, everyday things." There had to be people like that.
It was all no use.
That confession of mine, more than hers about the jewels, goaded my mother into taking a step which even we, blind as we were, felt to be epoch-making in our history.
That same evening she began to talk about Aunt Josephine—to excuse her. Mrs. Harborough had been so wrapped up in her brilliant young step-brother (and Aunt Josephine would never allow the "step") that any other person's coming in must inevitably have been resented. "She idolised your father." A woman of high character. Given to good works. Busied about the redemption of long-shoremen and about country treats for jam-factory girls. Knee-deep in philanthropy. And childless. She could not, especially now after that old first anger had long cooled, she could not be indifferent to the fate of her brother's children.