Sommers paused, finding now that he had started on his tale that it was difficult to bring out his point, to make this girl understand the significance of it, and the reason why he told it to her. She was attentive, but he thought she was a trifle bored. Soon he began again and went over all the steps of the affair.
"You see," he concluded, "I was morally certain that, if the operation succeeded, the fellow would be worse than useless in this world. Now it's coming true. Of course I have no responsibility; I did what any other doctor should have done, I suppose; and, if it had been an ordinary hospital case, I don't suppose that I should have thought twice about it. But you see that I—this woman has got her load of misery saddled on her, perhaps for life, and partly through me."
"I think she did right," the girl responded quickly, looking at the case from an entirely different side.
"I am not sure of that," Sommers retorted brusquely.
"What kind of a woman is she?" the girl inquired with interest, ignoring his last remark.
"I don't think I could make you understand her. I don't myself now."
"Is she pretty?"
"I don't know. She makes you see her always."
The girl moved as if the evening wind had touched her, and put on her hat.
"She's a desperately literal woman, primitive, the kind you never meet—well, out here. She has a thirst for happiness, and doesn't get a drop."