After this memorable ceremony, Mrs. Clyde retired to the library and, quite contrary to her usually self-restrained nature, dissolved into illogical tears, in which condition she was found by the rest.
“I—I—I don’t know what’s the matter,” she sobbed, in response to her husband’s inquiry. “It’s just because I hated the very thought of that abominable red sign so,—as if we were unclean—like lepers.”
“Well, we’re not lepers and if we can continue in that blessed state,” remarked Dr. Strong cheerfully, “we can escape most of the ills that flesh is heir to. After all, from a scientific point of view, contagion is merely the Latin synonym for a much shorter and uglier word.”
“Which is—” queried Mr. Clyde.
“Dirt,” said the Health Master.
VIII.
HOPE FOR THE HOPELESS
“Hopeless from the first,” said old Mrs. Sharpless, with a sigh, to her daughter.
Mrs. Clyde nodded. “I suppose so. And she has so much to live for, too.”
“What’s this that’s hopeless from the first?” asked the Health Master, looking up from the novel which he was enjoying in what he called his “lazy hour,” after luncheon.
“Mrs. Westerly’s case,” said the younger woman. “Even now that she’s gone to the hospital, the family won’t admit that it’s cancer.”