She hesitated, at a loss for a word.
“Did you—did you ever think over
that trouble with Miss Page about the medicines?
That would have been easy, and like her.”
“She hates Miss Page, of course, but I hardly
think—If that’s true, it was nearly
murder.”
There were two voices, a young one, full of soft southern
inflections, and an older voice, a trifle hard, as
from disillusion.
They were working as they talked. Sidney could
hear the clatter of bottles on the tray, the scraping
of a moved table.
“He was crazy about her last fall.”
“Miss Page?” (The younger voice, with
a thrill in it.)
“Carlotta. Of course this is confidential.”
“Surely.”
“I saw her with him in his car one evening.
And on her vacation last summer—”
The voices dropped to a whisper. Sidney, standing
cold and white by the sterilizer, put out a hand to
steady herself. So that was it! No wonder
Carlotta had hated her. And those whispering
voices! What were they saying? How hateful
life was, and men and women. Must there always
be something hideous in the background? Until
now she had only seen life. Now she felt its
hot breath on her cheek.
She was steady enough in a moment, cool and calm,
moving about her work with ice-cold hands and slightly
narrowed eyes. To a sort of physical nausea
was succeeding anger, a blind fury of injured pride.
He had been in love with Carlotta and had tired of
her. He was bringing her his warmed-over emotions.
She remembered the bitterness of her month’s
exile, and its probable cause. Max had stood
by her then. Well he might, if he suspected
the truth.
For just a moment she had an illuminating flash of
Wilson as he really was, selfish and self-indulgent,
just a trifle too carefully dressed, daring as to
eye and speech, with a carefully calculated daring,
frankly pleasure-loving. She put her hands over
her eyes.
The voices in the next room had risen above their
whisper.
“Genius has privileges, of course,” said
the older voice. “He is a very great surgeon.
To-morrow he is to do the Edwardes operation again.
I am glad I am to see him do it.”
Sidney still held her hands over her eyes. He
was a great surgeon: in his hands he held
the keys of life and death. And perhaps he had
never cared for Carlotta: she might have thrown
herself at him. He was a man, at the mercy of
any scheming woman.
She tried to summon his image to her aid. But
a curious thing happened. She could not visualize
him. Instead, there came, clear and distinct,
a picture of K. Le Moyne in the hall of the little
house, reaching one of his long arms to the chandelier
over his head and looking up at her as she stood on
the stairs.
“My God, Sidney, I’m asking you to marry
me!”
