CHAPTER XXIII

When Rosalind Hollis found herself on her feet again a slight sensation of fright checked her for a moment.  Then, resolutely suppressing such unworthy weakness, the lofty inspiration of her mission in life dominated her, and she stepped forward undaunted.  And Carden, seeing her advance toward him, arose in astonishment to meet her.

For a second they stood facing each other, he astounded, she a trifle pale but firm.  Then in a low voice she asked his pardon for disturbing him.

“I am Rosalind Hollis, a physician,” she said quietly, “and physicians are sometimes obliged to do difficult things in the interest of their profession.  It is dreadfully difficult for me to speak to you in this way.  But”—­she looked fearlessly at him—­“I am confident you will not misinterpret what I have done.”

He managed to assure her that he did not misinterpret it.

She regarded him steadily; she examined the dark circles under his eyes; she coolly observed his rising color under her calm inspection; she saw him fidgeting with his walking stick.  She must try his pulse!

“Would you mind if I asked you a few questions in the interest of science?” she said earnestly.

“As a m-m-matter of fact,” he stammered, “I don’t know much about science.  Awfully glad to do anything I can, you know.”

“Oh, I don’t mean it that way,” she reassured him.  A hint of a smile tinted her eyes with brilliant amethyst.  “Would you mind if I sat here for a few moments? Could you overlook this horrid unconventionality long enough for me to explain why I have spoken to you?”

“I could indeed!” he said, so anxiously cordial that her lovely face grew serious and she hesitated.  But he was standing aside, hat off, placing the bench at her disposal, and she seated herself, placing her book on the bench beside her.

“Would you mind sitting here for a few moments?” she asked him gravely.

Dazed, scarcely crediting the evidence of his senses, he took possession of the end of the bench with the silent obedience of a schoolboy.  His attitude was irreproachable.  She was grateful for this, and her satisfaction with herself for not having misjudged him renewed her confidence in him, in herself, and in the difficult situation.

She began, quietly, by again telling him her name and profession; where she lived, and that she was studying to be a specialist, though she did not intimate what that specialty was to be.

Outwardly composed and attentively deferential, his astonishment at times dominated a stronger sentiment that seemed to grow and expand with her every word, seizing him in a fierce possession absolutely and hopelessly complete.

The bewildering fascination of her mastered him.  No cool analysis of what his senses were confirming could be necessary to convince him of his condition.  Every word of hers, every gesture, every inflection of her sweet, clear voice, every lifting of her head, her eyes, her perfectly gloved hands, only repeated to him what he knew was a certainty.  Never had he looked upon such physical loveliness; never had he dreamed of such a voice.