Dr. Mulbridge’s finger was instantly on her wrist. “Are you faint?”
“No, no!” she gasped, pulling her hand away. “I am perfectly well.” Then she was silent for a time before she added by a supreme effort, “I have no right to endanger another’s life, through any miserable pride, and I never will. Mrs. Maynard needs greater experience than mine, and she must have it. I can’t justify myself in the delay and uncertainty of sending to Boston. I relinquish the case. I give it to you. And I will nurse her under your direction, obediently, conscientiously. Oh!” she cried, at his failure to make any immediate response, “surely you won’t refuse to take the case!”
“I won’t refuse,” he said, with an effect of difficult concession. “I will come. I will drive over at once, after dinner.”
She rose now, and put her hand on the door-latch. “Do you object to my nursing your patient? She is an old school friend. But I could yield that point too, if”—
“Oh, no, no! I shall be only too glad of your help, and your”—he was going to say advice, but he stopped himself, and repeated—“help.”
They stood inconclusively a moment, as if they would both be glad of something more to say. Then she said tentatively, “Good-morning,” and he responded experimentally, “Good-morning”; and with that they involuntarily parted, and she went out of the door, which he stood holding open even after she had got out of the gate.
His mother came down the stairs. “What in the world were you quarrelling with that girl about, Rufus?”
“We were not quarrelling, mother.”
“Well, it sounded like it. Who was she?
“Who?” repeated her son absently. “Dr. Breen.”