“Ssh, ssh,” his mother murmured reprovingly, seeking to soften his barbarian instincts.
She was gone for what seemed to the doctor an interminable time, and when she returned there was something cold and severe in her pale face. Before she seated herself, she began to say what she had in mind:
“Dr. Vessinger, there is something I must say to you, all at once, now, and then you must go. You have made love to me,—yesterday evening,—and I listened. I was in great agony of mind, and so foolishly absorbed in my pain that I thought you—you understood what my trouble was. I wanted to escape from it—at any price. I was wild and bad. Now, well, you don’t understand; and I know, myself, I could not get any joy or give any, without him, little Oscar.”
“I don’t understand,” Dr. Vessinger exclaimed, thoroughly mystified.
“No, you don’t understand,” she admitted with cool irony. “Perhaps it is not necessary that you should. You doubtless see that I could not give you the pleasure you look for.”
“I do not admit that for one moment,” he protested, rising.
She held out her hand.
“I was right—eight years ago; that is all, my friend.”
He took her hand and held it, trying to come nearer, to melt the icy mood of the woman. She smiled pleasantly at him, unmoved, confident, and in another world of feeling than his.
“You are not well,” he stammered, “not yourself!”