“And as easy as an old shoe,” said the doctor. “Just as nice to Perley’s boy, who’s a waif that the Perleys picked up in the streets of Stockton, as if he was the Prince of Wales. I tell you heredity’s a queer thing. How did Bill Cannon come to have a girl like that? Of course there’s the mother to take into account, but—”
A knock on the door interrupted him. To his cry of “Come in,” Rose entered, a white shawl over her shoulders, a book in her hand. While she and Dominick were exchanging greetings, the doctor began thrusting his medicines into his bag, alleging the necessity of an immediate departure, as two cases of bronchitis and three of pneumonia awaited him.
“You didn’t know there were that many people in Antelope,” he said as he snapped the clasp of the bag and picked up his hat. “Well, I’ll swear to it, even if it does seem the prejudiced estimate of an old inhabitant. So long. I’ll be back by five and I hope to hear a good report from the nurse.”
The door closed behind him and Dominick and the young girl were left looking rather blankly at each other. It was the first time he had seen her when he had not been presented to her observation as a prostrate and fever-stricken sufferer of whom nothing was expected but a docile attitude in the matter of medicines. Now he felt the subjugating power of clothes. It did not seem possible that the doctor’s bath-robe and Mrs. Perley’s red rug could cast such a blighting weight of constraint and consciousness upon him. But with the donning of them his invalid irresponsibility seemed gone for ever. He had a hunted, helpless feeling that he ought to talk to this young woman as gentlemen did who were not burdened by the pain of frozen feet and marital troubles. Moreover, he felt the annoyance of being thus thrust upon the care of a lady whom he hardly knew.
“I’m very sorry that they bothered you this way,” he said awkwardly. “I—I—don’t think I need any one with me. I’m quite comfortable here by myself,” and then he stopped, conscious of the ungraciousness of his words, and reddening uncomfortably.
“I dare say you don’t want me here,” said Rose with an air of meekness which had the effect of being assumed. “But you really have been too sick to be left alone. Besides, there’s your medicine, you must take that regularly.”
The invalid gave an indifferent cast of his eye toward the glass on the bureau, guarded by the familiar book and spoon. Then he looked back at her. She was regarding him deprecatingly.
“Couldn’t I take it myself?” he said.
“I don’t think I’d trust you,” she answered.
His sunken glance was held by hers, and he saw, under the deprecation of her look, humor struggling to keep itself in seemly suppression. He was faintly surprised. There did not seem to him anything comic in the fact of her distrust. But as he looked at her he saw the humor rising past control. She dropped her eyes to hide it and bit her under lip. This did strike him as funny and a slow grin broke the melancholy of his face. She stole a stealthy look at him, her gravity vanished at the first glimpse of the grin, and she began to laugh, holding her head down and making the stifled, chuckling sounds of controlled mirth suddenly liberated. He was amused and a little puzzled and, with his grin more pronounced than before, said,