He seemed to question her seriousness.
“I have seen little of women for a number of years,” he returned, “but I’d hate to think it impossible.”
“Little of women!” was the surprised comment.
“You misunderstand,” he quickly corrected. “I go out so seldom that the woman I see is not the real woman at all; not the woman of home.” His hand made a little motion of forbearance. “In his consultation-room the patients of a physician are––sexless.”
“I think that a woman––that I––can still be natural, Dr. Carter,” said Miss Willis, slowly, her eyes downcast. “What did you wish to ask?”
It was his turn to hesitate.
“I hardly know how to put it, now that I have permission,” he apologized, with a deprecatory little laugh.
“We seldom do things in this world,” he went on at once, “unless we want to, or unless the alternative of not doing them is more unpleasant.” 411 He merged generalities into a more specific assertion. “There was no alternative in your requesting me to call. Candidly, why do I interest you?”
His voice was alive, and the woman, now thoroughly mistress of herself, gazed into the frankest of frank gray eyes.
“I scarcely know,” she said, weighing her answer. “Perhaps it was the novel experience of being considered––sexless; of being classified by a number, like a beetle in a case. Let me answer with another question: Why did I interest you sufficiently to come?”