The evening at Evison’s held a new atmosphere for Billy. The elegant luxury of the place seemed very restful after the crowded confusion of the Burns home. Marjorie was unusually quiet and sweet and dignified. She seemed even a little shy in the presence of the notorious surgeon, listening with charming attention to all he said, but saying little herself. However, the men talked, and they talked to her and for her—Billy with his usual sincere interest; the doctor with his clever way of unconsciously saying the most complimentary things. It was quite possible that he had said them before, of course, and quite probable that he would say them again and keep right on saying them so long as people
with grown-up daughters continued to shower him with their hospitality. Several times she caught Billy watching her with the sober tenderness that he always dropped apologetically when she looked, but the doctor looked her over with a daring admiration that might mean anything or nothing. It was splendid to have Billy there, because whatever the doctor’s attitude might be, he couldn’t help seeing that another man—a rather exceptional man, too—was in earnest, and that meant a great deal for a girl sometimes. Altogether, she felt that she was being a great success.
Marjorie had an idea that men, at least men with a reputation, liked to talk about themselves, and under cover of the general table conversation, she confided to Dr. Knight that she thought it was wonderful to be able to do so much for people, especially for “the little children.” “When I see other people doing things like that, I just wonder what I’m living for,” she confessed, gravely, as though she had just been awakened to the responsibility of existence through his greatness. “It’s simply unbearable to see people suffer and do nothing to help them—especially the babies. Don’t you think it’s rather hard to be a girl?”
“What about training for a nurse?” he suggested practically.
She hadn’t expected anything like that, and she thought it was scarcely kind of him. She looked appealingly at her mother.
“I guess Marjorie’s a home girl,” the mother explained, smiling with indulgent pride at her daughter. “And, of course, her father wouldn’t think of letting her go away from home. She was at college two years ago studying domestic science and she did enjoy that so much, but we were completely lost without her. I guess we’re rather selfish.”
And the men both smiled across at her with the masculine equivalent for her mother’s expression. She had always found it most gratifying to be admired by two men at the same time.
Of course, she was “a home girl,” Billy thought, as he drove home. Every little grace of her feminine personality proclaimed her made to be taken care of, and how proud of her a man would be. He imagined with some anxiety how hard it would go with her if she ever came to a place where she wouldn’t have the consideration they gave her at home, and he found himself wondering just what manner of man this Dr. Knight was, apart from his profession. When he had left them he was turning her music and he had never known her to be so generous with her playing. He wouldn’t admit that he was jealous, but one of those proverbial little clouds the size of a man’s hand seemed to be threatening his skies.
When he passed the Burns house he saw a dim light in an upstairs window and was reminded bitterly again of his neglect of the Home boy. However, Ruth would take care of him. He could see her shadow moving against the blind now, and he thought how tired she must be. He didn’t know that her tiredness had gone, leaving something infinitely more painful in its place.
Under the anesthetic the boy had mumbled something about the “agricultural man” who had told him to come.