"Dear, no!—only at something I happened to think of." She came into the dining-room, a morning paper in her hand. "Besides, in to-morrow's paper I shall read all about what the handsome rector of St. Antipas said, in his handsome voice, to his handsome hearers——"
He had frowned at first, but now smiled indulgently, as they sat down to luncheon. "You will have your joke about my appearance, Nance! That reminds me—that poor romantic little Mrs. Eversley—sister of Mrs. Wyeth, you know—said to me after service this morning, 'Oh, Dr. Linford, if I could only believe in Christian dogma as I believe in you as a man!' You know, she's such a painfully emotional, impulsive creature, and then Colonel Godwin who stood by had to have his joke: 'The symbol will serve you for worship, Madam!' he says; 'I'm sure no woman's soul would ever be lost if all clergymen were as good to look upon as our friend here!' Those things always make me feel so awkward—they are said so bluntly—but what could I do?"
"Mr. Browett's sister and her son were out with him this morning," began Aunt Bell, charitably entering another channel of conversation from the intuition that her niece was wincing. But, as not infrequently happened, the seeming outlet merely gave again into the main channel.
"And there's Browett," continued the Doctor. "Now I am said to have great influence over women—women trust me, believe me—I may even say look up to me— but I pledge you my word I am conscious of wielding an immensely greater influence over men. There seems to be in my ego the power to prevail. Take Browett— most men are afraid of him—not physical fear, but their inner selves, their egos, go down before him. Yet from the moment I first saw that man I dominated him. It's all in having an ego that means mastery, Aunt Bell. Browett has it himself, but I have a greater one. Every time Browett's eyes meet mine he knows in his soul that I'm his master—his ego prostrates itself before mine— and yet that man"—he concluded in a tone of distinguishable awe—"is worth all the way from two to three hundred millions!"
"Mrs. Eversley is an unlucky little woman, from what I hear," began Aunt Bell, once more with altruistic aims.
"That reminds me," said the Doctor, recalling himself from a downward look at the grovelling Browett, "she made me promise to be in at four o'clock. Really I couldn't evade her—it was either four o'clock to-day or the first possible day. What could I do? Aunt Bell, I won't pretend that this being looked up to and sought out is always disagreeable. Contrary to the Pharisee, I say 'Thank God I am as other men are!' I have my human moments, but mostly it bores me, and especially these half-religious, half-sentimental confidences of emotional women who imagine their lives are tragedies. Now this woman believes her marriage is unhappy——"
"Indeed, it is!" Aunt Bell broke in—this time effectually, for she proceeded to relate of one Morris Upton Eversley a catalogue of inelegancies that, if authoritative, left him, considered as a husband, undesirable, not to say impracticable. His demerits, indeed, served to bring the meal to a blithe and chatty close.
Aunt Bell's practice each day after luncheon was, in her own terminology, to "go into the silence and concentrate upon the thought of the All-Good." She was recalled from the psychic state on this afternoon, though happily not before a good half-hour, by Nancy's knock at her door.
She came in, cheerful, a small sheaf of papers in her hand. Aunt Bell, finding herself restored and amiable, sat up to listen.
Nancy threw herself on the couch, with the air of a woman about to chat confidentially from the softness of many gay pillows, dropping into the attitude of tranquil relaxation that may yet bristle with eager mental quills.