And next he found himself responding with alacrity to the suggestion of coffee in the cool shade without, for the atmosphere of the little dining-room had grown somewhat warm and odorous, pervaded by hot dishes—while even a prospective tête-à-tête with his host was not altogether distasteful, since he was to be permitted to smoke.
And though he told himself he would not for worlds have Leonore's name enter into the conversation, in reality he was listening for it, waiting for it.
He had to wait however.
"It's a queer life, that of a country doctor;" the elder man laid down his pipe musingly. "A queer life—but it has its compensations. There's much to be given up, much to be done without,—there's struggle and hardship to begin with—strain and anxiety always,—but taken as a whole, it yields a satisfaction—Tommy, I often think there's no life on earth meets with such clear recompense for the outlay, be the outlay what it may."
"Yes, sir; I suppose so, sir;" absently.
"Human nature craves appreciation," the speaker slackened his big-limbed frame afresh, and puffed luxuriously, "to be watched for and welcomed and—and appreciated—there is no other word for it—wherever one goes, is something, who can deny it? One may never rise to eminence, one may be humble and obscure, as the world has it, all one's days, and yet——" again he paused.
"Yes, sir?" But at the second "Yes, sir," Dr. Craig roused himself.
"You aren't following me, Tommy. You think you knew all this before, and it sounds like a dull droning in your ears. Isn't it so, my boy?"
"I'm afraid I'm very poor company, sir. But you—you know what makes me so."
"And you would like to talk about it, and find every other subject uninteresting? Maybe you're right. What is it then? Her, I suppose?" And a faint smile, not unkindly, accompanied the last words.