Lily and Ella and Bennie—­Rose-Marie loved them, all three.  But Jim Volsky was the unsolvable problem—­the one that she tried to push to the back of her mind, to avoid.  Mrs. Volsky and Pa she gave up as nearly hopeless—­she kept, as much as possible, out of Pa’s way, and Mrs. Volsky could only be helped in the attaining of creature comforts—­her spirit seemed dead!  But Jim insisted upon intruding upon her moments in the flat; he monopolized conversations, and asked impertinent questions, and stared.  More than once he had offered to “walk her home” as she was leaving; more than once he had thrust himself menacingly across her path.  But she had managed, neatly, to avoid him.

Rose-Marie was afraid of Jim.  She admitted it to herself—­she even admitted, at times, that the Young Doctor might be of assistance if any emergency should arise out of Jim’s sleek persistence.  She had noticed, from the first, that the doctor was an impressive man among men—­she had seen the encouraging swell of muscles through the warm tweed of his coat sleeve.  But to have asked his help in the controlling of Jim would have been an admission of deceit, of weakness, of failure!  To prove her own theory that the people were real, underneath—­to prove that they had some sort of a code, and worth-while impulses—­she had to make the reformation of the Volsky family her own, individual task.

Yes—­Rose-Marie was busy.  Almost she hated to give up moments of her time to the letters she had to write home—­to the sewing that she had to do.  She made few friends among the teachers and visitors who thronged the Settlement House by day—­she was far too tired, when night came, to meet with the Young Doctor and the Superintendent in the cosy little living-room.  But often when her activities lasted well along into the evening, often when her clubs gave sociables or entertainments, she was forced to welcome the Young Doctor (the Superintendent was always welcome); to make room for him beside her own place.

It was during one of these entertainments—­her Girls’ Sewing Society was giving a party—­that she and the Young Doctor had their first real talk.  Before the quarrel at the luncheon table they had had little time together; since the quarrel the Young Doctor had seldom been able to corner Rose-Marie.  But at the entertainment they were placed, by the hand of circumstance, upon a wooden settee in the back of the room.  And there, for the better part of two hours—­while Katie Syrop declaimed poetry and Helen Merskovsky played upon the piano, and others recited long and monotonous dialogues—­they were forced to stay.

The Young Doctor was in a chastened mood.  He applauded heartily whenever a part of the program came to a close; the comments that he made behind his hand were neither sarcastic nor condescending.  He praised the work that Rose-Marie had done and then, while she was glowing—­almost against her will—­from the warmth of that praise, he ventured a remark that had nothing to do with the work.