Rose entered the second and larger room, and faced a small graceful woman, of keen, alert gaze. She appeared to be about thirty-five years of age. She shook hands briskly, but not warmly.
Her hand was small and firm and her tone quick and decisive. "How-d'-you-do! Sit down! I had a note from Dr. Thatcher the other day saying I might expect you."
Rose took a chair while the Doctor studied her, sitting meanwhile with small graceful head leaning on one palm, her elbow on the corner of her desk. No woman's eyes ever searched Rose like those of this little woman, and she rebelled against it inwardly, as Dr. Herrick curtly asked:
"Well, now, what can I do for you? Dr. Thatcher thought I could do something for you."
Rose was too dazed to reply. This small, resolute, brusque woman was a world's wonder to her. She looked down and stammered.
"I don't know—I—thought maybe you could help me to find out what I could do."
The Doctor studied her for an instant longer. She saw a large, apparently inexperienced girl, a little sullen and a little embarrassed—probably stupid.
"Don't you know what you want to do?"
"No—that is, I want to write," confessed Rose.
"Write! My dear girl, every addlepate wants to write. Have you friends in the city?"