* * * * *

Adelaide took Estelle’s store until Estelle came back to it, her surface calm like the smooth river that hides in its tortured bosom the deep-plunged rapids below the falls.  The day after Estelle’s return Adelaide began to study architecture at the university; soon she was made an instructor, with the dean delighted and not a little mystified by her energy and enthusiasm.  Yet the matter was simple and natural:  she had emerged from her baptism of blood and fire—­a woman; at last she had learned what in life is not worth while; she was ready to learn what it has to offer that is worth while—­the sole source of the joys that have no reaction, of the content that is founded upon the rock.

CHAPTER XXVI

CHARLES WHITNEY’S HEIRS

Eight specialists, including Romney, of New York and Saltonstal, of Chicago, had given Charles Whitney their verdicts on why he was weak and lethargic.  In essential details these diagnoses differed as widely as opinions always differ where no one knows, or can know, and so everyone is free to please his own fancy in choosing a cloak for his ignorance.  Some of the doctors declared kidneys sound but liver suspicious; others exonerated liver but condemned one or both kidneys; others viewed kidneys and liver with equal pessimism; still others put those organs aside and shook their heads and unlimbered their Latin at spleen and pancreas.  In one respect, however, the eight narrowed to two groups.  “Let’s figure it out trial-balance fashion,” said Whitney to his private secretary, Vagen.  “Five, including two-thousand-dollar Romney, say I ‘may go soon.’  Three, including our one-thousand-dollar neighbor, Saltonstal, say I am ’in no immediate danger.’  But what the Romneys mean by ‘soon,’ and what the Saltonstals mean by ‘immediate,’ none of the eight says.”

“But they all say that ’with proper care’—­” began Vagen, with the faith of the little in the pretentious.

“So they do!  So they do!” interrupted Whitney, whom life had taught not to measure wisdom by profession of it, nor yet by repute for it.  And he went on in a drowsy drawl, significantly different from his wonted rather explosive method of speech:  “But does any of ’em say what ‘proper care’ is?  Each gives his opinion.  Eight opinions, each different and each cautioning me against the kind of ‘care’ prescribed by the other seven.  And I paid six thousand dollars!” A cynical smile played round his thin-lipped, sensual, selfish mouth.

“Sixty-three hundred,” corrected Vagen.  He never missed this sort of chance to impress his master with his passion for accuracy.

“Sixty-three, then.  I’d better have given you the money to blow in on your fliers on wheat and pork.”

At this Vagen looked much depressed.  It was his first intimation that his chief knew about his private life.  “I hope, sir, nobody has been poisoning your mind against me,” said he.  “I court the fullest investigation.  I have been honest—­”