Kennicott appeared at the inner door, ushering out
a bleached man with a trickle of wan beard, and consoling
him, “All right, Dad. Be careful about
the sugar, and mind the diet I gave you. Gut the
prescription filled, and come in and see me next week.
Say, uh, better, uh, better not drink too much beer.
All right, Dad.”
His voice was artificially hearty. He looked
absently at Carol. He was a medical machine now,
not a domestic machine. “What is it, Carrie?”
he droned.
“No hurry. Just wanted to say hello.”
“Well——”
Self-pity because he did not divine that this was
a surprise party rendered her sad and interesting
to herself, and she had the pleasure of the martyrs
in saying bravely to him, “It’s nothing
special. If you’re busy long I’ll
trot home.”
While she waited she ceased to pity and began to mock
herself. For the first time she observed the
waiting-room. Oh yes, the doctor’s family
had to have obi panels and a wide couch and an electric
percolator, but any hole was good enough for sick
tired common people who were nothing but the one means
and excuse for the doctor’s existing! No.
She couldn’t blame Kennicott. He was satisfied
by the shabby chairs. He put up with them as
his patients did. It was her neglected province—she
who had been going about talking of rebuilding the
whole town!
When the patients were gone she brought in her bundles.
“What’s those?” wondered Kennicott.
“Turn your back! Look out of the window!”
He obeyed—not very much bored. When
she cried “Now!” a feast of cookies and
small hard candies and hot coffee was spread on the
roll-top desk in the inner room.
His broad face lightened. “That’s
a new one on me! Never was more surprised in
my life! And, by golly, I believe I am hungry.
Say, this is fine.”
When the first exhilaration of the surprise had declined
she demanded, “Will! I’m going to
refurnish your waiting-room!”
“What’s the matter with it? It’s
all right.”
“It is not! It’s hideous. We
can afford to give your patients a better place.
And it would be good business.” She felt
tremendously politic.
“Rats! I don’t worry about the business.
You look here now: As I told you——Just
because I like to tuck a few dollars away, I’ll
be switched if I’ll stand for your thinking
I’m nothing but a dollar-chasing——”
“Stop it! Quick! I’m not hurting
your feelings! I’m not criticizing!
I’m the adoring least one of thy harem.
I just mean——”
Two days later, with pictures, wicker chairs, a rug,
she had made the waiting-room habitable; and Kennicott
admitted, “Does look a lot better. Never
thought much about it. Guess I need being bullied.”
She was convinced that she was gloriously content
in her career as doctor’s-wife.
She tried to free herself from the speculation and
disillusionment which had been twitching at her; sought
to dismiss all the opinionation of an insurgent era.
She wanted to shine upon the veal-faced bristly-bearded
Lyman Cass as much as upon Miles Bjornstam or Guy Pollock.
She gave a reception for the Thanatopsis Club.
But her real acquiring of merit was in calling upon
that Mrs. Bogart whose gossipy good opinion was so
valuable to a doctor.
