“He’s got the look of a medieval monk,” he told himself,—seeing it, strangely, for the first time. Well, perhaps asceticism was the price Lewis had had to pay for his astonishing success. He had accomplished in ten years or so what usually takes a man in his profession the better part of his life, if he ever achieves it at all. “Naturally Lewis hasn’t had much time for the flesh-pots along the way,” mused Dick.
Doctor Lewis Pryne was only thirty-three, and yet in the years since graduating from Harvard Medical he had made himself a specialist in psychiatry, written three instantly famous books on dynamic psychology, and accumulated a clientele which might be the envy of any other psychiatrist not congenitally superior to envy, in the country. And he was self-made. At least, ever since his father had died when Lewis was a Senior in Latin High, he had earned his own way, and looked out for Cynthia as well, until she married Dick’s cousin, Harry Allen. Yet here he was, in spite of that stupendous early handicap, loaded with fame and honor—and if not with money, that was simply because money did not seem to be one of his goals.
Meeting Lewis in the ordinary way—that is, outside of an office visit—you got no hint of past struggles and their necessary austerities. His gray eyes were more sleepy than austere, with a languid droop at the outer corners of the heavy upper lids. His mouth curled, slightly, as if fleeting little smiles were habitual, and most of the time an almost palpable light played over the lower part of the face, particularly the full but chiseled lips. Without that light and the odd, fleeting smile, Lewis’ mouth would have been definitely sensuous. As it was, you never thought of that—only of its sensitive but exquisitely impersonal sympathy.
The gray sleepy eyes released the door knob, came to rest on Dick Wilder’s face. “How did Green Doors come by its name?”
Dick started, realizing that this was a repeated question. What had he been woolgathering about? Lewis, himself. He had been busy seeing Lewis in a new, fresh way, after a fifteen years’ friendship. That was strange. Then he understood it. He had been seeing Lewis as Clare would soon be seeing him,—looking at him through Clare’s eyes.
“Oh? The name? It was Clare’s idea. It’s in a poem. Published in The Glebe, 1914.” (He got up as he answered. Lewis’ time was precious, and staying to chatter now would be inexcusable, after Lewis had been so altogether patient and friendly.) “I don’t remember it all. But there’s a line—
“‘I know an orchard old and rare,
I will not tell you where,
With green doors opening to the sun....’
“Something like that anyway. Clare said we wouldn’t plan a house at all, but just green doors, opening to the sun. We’ve done it too! You’ll see, Saturday. I’ll pick you up at the Allens’ around four. Crazy to show the place to you!”