"I do not need to be. I am a doctor, a prescriber of pills, a mender of bones, a plumber of pipes … my work does not call for beauty. Beauty is an embarrassment to a doctor. You would be happier, young fellow, without that wavy brown hair and those big eyes of yours, with their long lashes. A man is built for work, like a truck. Gold and leather upholstering do not belong there. Women are different; it is their place in life to be beautiful, and when they fail in that, they fail entirely. They have no license to be fat, flabby double-chinned, flat-footed. It is not seemly, and of course you cannot tell how any of them may turn out. They are all pretty at sixteen. That is what makes marriage such a lottery."
"I don't agree with you at all," said his companion, "it is absurd to expect a woman of fifty to have the slim grace of a girl of eighteen. My mother was a big woman, and I always thought her very beautiful. I think you have a pagan way of looking at marriage. Marriage is a mutual agreement, for mutual benefit and comfort, for sympathy and companionship. Family life develops the better side of human nature, and casts out selfishness. Many a man has found himself when he gets a wife, and in the caring for his children has thrown off the shackels of selfishness. People only live when they can forget themselves, for selfishness is death. Your a great doctor, Dr. Brander, but a poor philosopher."
The older man smiled grimly.
"See here, Clay," he said, "did you ever think of how nature fools us poor dupes? Nature, old Dame Nature, has one object, and that is to people the earth—and to this end she shapes all her plans. She makes women beautiful, graceful, attractive and gives them the instinct to dress in a way that will attract men. Makes them smaller and weaker than men, too, which also makes its appeal. Why, if I hadn't watched my step, I'd been married a dozen times. These little frilled and powdered vixens have nearly got me…. If nature used half as much care in keeping people healthy and free from accidents, as she does in getting them here—it would be a happier world. But that is not nature's concern—She leaves that to the doctors!"
"Well, how does the time go? Isn't that the train whistle?"
"No hurry," said Dr. Clay, rising, "it stops at the water-tank, and that whistle is for the hill."
They walked over to the station in silence, and stood watching the red eye that came gliding through the moonlit valley. The train seemed to be slipping in to the station without a sound, in the hope that no one would notice how late it was.
"Come up and see me, Clay," said the old man kindly. "I want to give you a thorough examination—and I will expect you in a week—we'll talk things over, and see what is best. You have my bag, don't bother coming on—all right then—here's a double seat—so I can stretch out—though it's hardly worth while for an hour. Goodbye Clay, remember all I told you!"
When the doctor went back to his office, he sat long in his chair in front of the fire, and thought. The place was the same—the cheerful fire—the rows of books—the Fathers of Confederation picture on the wall—and his college group. Everything was the same as it had been—only himself. Everything in the room was strong, durable, almost everlasting, able to resist time and wear. He was the only perishable thing, it seemed.
He wondered how people act when confronted by the ruin of their hopes. Do they rave and curse and cry aloud? He could not think clearly—his mind seemed to avoid the real issue and refuse to strike on the sore place, and he thought of all sorts of other things.