It passed almost as suddenly as it had come. The thundering blood sank back to the unknown and unconscious rhythms of its usual courses. But as this was Petra’s second experience only of the alert separate mind of the body, she was left strangely shaken by it. It took some effort to return her attention to the shorthand textbook, and she was glad when the telephone finally began ringing in earnest and she could put aside her self-imposed and solitary work.
For a while everything went smoothly. Petra really seemed to have an instinct for discriminating between the important and unimportant and it is certain that her magnetic young voice won instant confidence from the unseen inquirers; they felt that she would remember their requests and do her best in getting Doctor Pryne’s attention for them the first minute possible. She wrote everything down in a tidy, self-conscious hand and filed what should be filed, all the while feeling effectual and important. If the few patients waiting their turns in the little room looked at her more than at the magazines and books they pretended to be reading, she was unaware of it.
The door into the outer hall was standing wide open in the interest of all the draft possible; and so since Petra’s shoulder was turned that way, and the latest comer wore rubber-soled sneakers, she was not aware of him until he came around her desk and stood over her. The little desk, as he stood before her, leaning on it, suddenly became spindly, a mere chip, he was so large and dynamic. He was looking at Petra in surprise that she was not Janet. So she read his expression. She noticed, even in her first startled glance up at him, how blue the eyes were in his bronzed face and how the black brows over them met in a straight line across his high, straight nose. She had never seen eyes of so intense and deep a blue, she thought. They were rather like her own, had she realized it, for it was a strange coincidence, but the girl at the desk and the man bending over it might have been brother and sister. Their coloring, their physiques and their vitality were all in the same key.
The surprise in the man’s face was perhaps more like anger than surprise, after all. A sort of tortured anger, Petra thought. The intense blue of his eyes burned down at her with angry questioning. But his fine, clean-cut lips were set in a defiant line as if he meant never to speak. The thought flashed through Petra’s mind that he might be an insane patient of Doctor Pryne’s who had broken loose from confinement and was seeking out the man who had consigned him to the asylum, to shoot him. But instantly she knew it wasn’t so; the fire in the intense blue eyes was fire of intelligence burning to an expression almost as articulate as speech.
“Do you want to see Doctor Pryne?” she asked. “I am sorry but—”
She got no farther. He had reached a swift hand and snatching a letter from the top of the pile the postman had only a minute ago deposited there, turned it over and, picking up a pencil, wrote on its back, “I am dumb. Neil McCloud. No appointment. Only want to see Pryne for a minute. Will wait till he can work me in.”
Dumb! This vital creature, radiating power and strength! Petra held out her hand for the pencil. But he did not give it to her. He wrote again, the strokes of his script swift and angry, “I’m not deaf. Speak!”
“Sit down,” she said. She could not talk to him while he towered like that. It was like standing under an avalanche of physical and mental force. There was a chair close to her desk. He took it. She felt that he might mind having the other patients, who had appointments, hear him being refused one, and so she leaned toward him and explained the situation almost in a whisper. Doctor Pryne had been out of town and as a consequence was extraordinarily busy to-day. He couldn’t possibly see people without appointments, even for a minute. But next week—She took up the appointment book. The minute McCloud had written his name Petra had placed him, for on Janet’s advice she had studied and learned the names of the regular patients by heart during her first day here. She fluttered the pages of her book and came to McCloud. He had an appointment for Saturday afternoon, to-morrow. That was odd. Janet had said that Doctor Pryne kept his weekends absolutely free for his writing. But here it was in Janet’s hand—McCloud, four o’clock, June 28.
She hesitated over it. Ought she to suggest that Mr. McCloud wait for Janet’s next appearance from the inner office? This was the first time to-day that Petra had felt so uncertain of her ground. But then she decided, “No. I’m in. I must swim. That is what both Doctor Pryne and Janet expect of me. McCloud’ll have to wait for his appointment like everybody else.”—She looked across at him. Blue eyes met blue eyes, his tormented and angry, hers cool but sorry. “I’m sorry—” she began, but again he snatched at the pencil. “OK,” he almost tore it into the envelope. And then he added, underlining it, “Don’t tell him I called. I’d rather you didn’t. Back Saturday.”
Halfway to the door he swung around and came back to Petra. She handed him the pencil. He wrote—but this time in small, scrupulously clear characters—“You’re a damned beautiful girl.” She had read it easily upside down as he wrote but he was gone before the color flamed in her face.