"We all do. It is the great human need." He twisted his face up inscrutably as he added: "I hope you will get your share."
"Thank you," said Burton. His heart sank suddenly. He hadn't wanted to be reminded of his own needs. "Am I to see Miss Underwood this morning?" he asked, facing the inevitable.
"She wishes to see you," said the doctor, somewhat hesitatingly, and a troubled look crossed his face. "She asked me to keep you; I'll tell her you are here." He rose, polishing his glasses painstakingly. He adjusted them carefully on his nose, and then looked over them at Burton. "You saw--I understand that Mrs. Overman was in town yesterday," he said.
"Yes," said Burton uncomfortably. "She was here between trains only. There was no time--"
The doctor raised his hand deprecatingly. "You can tell Leslie about it," he said. At the door he paused. "When the little gods take a hand in any game, there is no use for any of us to borrow responsibility," he said enigmatically, and hastily departed, leaving Burton feeling far from at ease.
He looked about the familiar room with a silent farewell. Here it was that he had seen Leslie fired with generous anger at the attack on her father. By this curtain she had hidden herself away on the evening when that absurd committee came to "investigate," and he had thought of her as a jewel whose beauty could never be concealed. Here he had stood when the sound of her music came to him--
There was a faint sound behind him, and he turned swiftly to face her. She had entered so softly that he had not heard her, and she stood by the door looking at him with a shrinking dread that gave him a pang. She was very pale, and if the dark circles about her eyes did not mean tears, he was at a loss to interpret them.
"What is it? What troubles you?" he asked quickly.
"I am not--" she began. Then she interrupted herself. "Yes, I am troubled and unhappy and wretched and ashamed,--oh, so ashamed! You will despise me!"
"You are wrong there, at least. Can you tell me--?"