“Yes,” said. Dr. Strong. “What is our expert diagnostician’s opinion of the case? You know I always defer to you, ma’am, on any problem that’s under the surface of things.”
“None of your soft sawder, young man!” said the old lady, her shrewd, gray eyes twinkling from her shrewd, pink face. “My opinion of Louise Ennis? I’ll give it to you in two words. Just spoiled.”
“Taking my warning as I find it,” remarked the physician, rising, “I shall now retire to put on some chain armor under my evening coat, in case the Terrible Cousin attempts to stab me with an oyster-fork.”
The dinner was not, as Mrs. Clyde was forced to admit afterward, by any means the dismal function which she had anticipated. Oren Taylor, an easy, discursive, humorous talker, set the pace and was ably seconded by Grandma Sharpless, whose knack of incisive and pointed comment served to spur him to his best. Dr. Strong, who said little, attempted to draw Miss Ennis into the current of talk, and was rewarded with an occasional flash of rather acid wit, which caused the artist to look across the table curiously at the girl. So far as he could do so without rudeness, the physician studied his neighbor.
He saw a tall, amply-built girl, with a slackened frame whose muscles had forgotten how to play their part properly in holding the structure firm. Her face was flaccid. Under the large but dull eyes, there was a bloodless puffiness. Discontent sat enthroned at the corners of the sensitive mouth. A faint, reddish eruption disfigured her chin. Her two strong assets, beautifully even teeth and a wealth of soft, fine hair, failed wholly to save her from being a flatly repellent woman. Dr. Strong noted further that her hands were incessantly uneasy, and that she ate little and without interest. Also she seemed, in a sullen way, shy. Yet, despite all of these drawbacks, there was a pathetic suggestion of inherent fineness about her; of qualities become decadent through disuse; a charm that should have been, thwarted and perverted by a slovenly habit of life. Dr. Strong set her down as a woman at war with herself, and therefore with her world.
After dinner Mr. and Mrs. Clyde slipped away to see the children. The artist followed Dr. Strong, to whom he had taken a liking, as most men did, into the small lounging-room, where he lighted a cigar.
“Too bad about that Miss Ennis, isn’t it?” said Taylor abruptly.
His companion looked at him interrogatively.
“Such a mess,” he continued. “Such a ruin. Yet so much left that isn’t ruined. That face would be worth a lot to me for the ‘Poet’s Cycle of the Months’ that I’m painting now. What a November she’d make; ‘November, the withered mourner of glories dead and gone.’ Only I suppose she’d resent being asked to sit.”
“Illusions are the last assets that a woman loses,” agreed Dr. Strong.