Jennette Lee

“ It came to me like a kind of vision when Doctor Rodney asked me for the room," she went on, "that was not mine—to give—" He made a motion, but she stopped him. "—that the room was partly yours and partly—Arthur Sedgwick's."
"I see." He was staring into the fire now and his face was grave, and the strong lines crept into it. "I don't class with Sedgwick." His hand made a gesture toward the room. "He can do things that a man of my sort cannot do. . . . But I could make you happy—I think I could make you happy." He had turned to her.
"Shall I tell the doctor he can have the room?" she said. ”

“ Calhoun is coming back—to-night?"
He stood up impatiently. "I can't see why you should have a house full of boarders," he said, brusquely.
She laughed out. "They're not boarders exactly. They're"—she looked about the cool room, "they're suitors, I think."
Sitting among her tumbling flowers, her eyes raised to him, her cheeks glowing, she was like some great, live, young goddess—some creature of another time and world.
The doctor crushed the visor of his cap in his fingers. "You will come to trouble some day," he said. ”

“ It's the distances that count. . . . You can't limit a machine, you know."
"You'd better limit yourself," she said, quietly. "You'll go smash some day."
He laughed out. "You'd like me to, wouldn't you—just to say, 'I told you'!"
"I'd like you to have sense," she said, "and save yourself for something worth while."
He glanced down the room—"Going to let Mary Caldwell have it?"
She colored a little, a quick, fleeting flush as if something had touched her. . . . Then the color danced. "What do you think?" ”

“ He crossed to the piano and leaned on it, looking down at her. "It's anything you please. . . . You—in this room—are the very soul of life—"
"That sounds quite nice," she said.
He flushed sharply and turned away. He moved across the room and came back and stood before her—"I have nothing to offer you or any woman—but I love you," he said. ”

“ She moved a little and crossed to the fire at the other end of the room. The logs from the morning's blaze were still charred and warm, and she adjusted them, guarding the flame that leaped up and drew back. Little sparks flew up the chimney.
There was a knock at the door and she started; her glance flickered like the flame on the hearth. "Come in," she said.
It was Robert C. Calhoun, well-rounded, well-balanced, well-poised. He held out his hand in quick greeting.
"Glad to see me?" he said.
"I am, indeed. I did not think you could come so early. Sit down." She motioned to the chair. ”

“ She nodded. "They're suitors, you know—just as much as Penelope's were—"
He smiled a little—in spite of himself.
"In the old times they had sense," she said, firmly. "When they loved her, they said so—with a trumpet—and everybody knew it and she knew it, and she arranged tests for them—caskets and things—and if they got it right—all right, and if they didn't—'off with their heads!'" She moved her hand with a free, dramatic gesture. "But now they just come and come. They don't devour your substance, because they pay board—but it's more wearing than Penelope's way was." ”

“ I don't like being worshipped," she said.
There was a sound outside. The old man turned his head.
"Mr. Martin—?" It was Ellen's voice, high and clear, in the hall. She appeared in the doorway, her elbows alert. "Fred Fitchly wants to see you—about the meadow," she said, shortly.
He smiled a tolerant, elderly smile and left the room. The girl did not look up from her flowers. "Ellen," she said, softly.
The woman half paused in the doorway, looking back. "Yes . . . m?"
"If Mr. Sedgwick should ask for me, I shall be in the upper room." ”

“ Caldwell—the house by the bridge, you know—there are five children, and another one coming soon. She is pretty seriously ill. There's to be an operation; it may save her—possibly the child—but it's a toss-up. It will be a great case—if she lives. ”