Madelaine left the contention open. She was thinking about Gordon’s language. He had always talked like a street gamin despite his home culture. Now his vocabulary was more refined, far more careful.
It was an hour before he arose to go.
“Madge,” he said at the door, “you’re never going to practice, even if you graduate from medical school.”
“Why not, Gordon? What makes you think so?” She was amused.
“There are too many men who need you in a slightly different capacity than doling out pills!”
She was glad when the door had closed on him that he had not said, “Because I want you and intend to marry you myself!”
Poor Gordon! Perhaps he too had been more sinned against than sinning.
Madelaine went back to her chair and remained for a long time in thought.
“I can’t let myself drift into it—I can’t. I can’t! Oh, dear, where can I go, what can I do, to escape it? Will I marry him after all? Will his persistence win in the end?”
Tears filmed her eyes. She had felt that strange pinch in her heart again, remembering the envelope in the drawer.