But she had not been in the Settlement House long before she began to feel the clash of their natures.  When she started to church service, on her first Sunday in New York, she surprised a smile of something that might have been cynical mirth upon his lean, square-jawed face.  And when she spoke of the daily prayers that she and her aunts had so beautifully believed in, back in the little town, he laughed at her—­not unkindly, but with the sympathetic superiority that one feels for a too trusting child.  Rose-Marie, thinking it over, knew that she would rather meet direct unkindness than that bland superiority!

And so—­though there had never been an open quarrel until the one at the luncheon table—­Rose-Marie had learned to look to the Superintendent for encouragement, rather than to the Young Doctor.  And she had frigidly declined his small courtesies—­a visit to the movies, a walk in the park, a ’bus ride up Fifth Avenue.

“I never went to the movies at home,” she had told him.  Or, “I’m too busy, just now, to take a walk.”  Or, “I can’t go with you to-day.  I’ve letters to write.”

“It’s a shame,” she confided, on occasion, to the Superintendent, “that Dr. Blanchard never goes to church.  It’s a shame that he has had so little religious life.  I gave him a book to read the other day—­the letters of an American Missionary in China—­and he laughed and told me that he couldn’t waste his time.  What do you think of that!  But later,” Rose-Marie’s voice sank to a horrified whisper, “later, I saw him reading a cheap novel—­he had time for a cheap novel!”

The Superintendent looked down into Rose-Marie’s earnest little face.

“My dear,” she said gently, stifling a desire to laugh, “my dear, he’s a very busy man.  He gives a great deal of himself to the people here in the slums.  The novel, to him, was just a mental relaxation.”

But to the Young Doctor, later, the Superintendent spoke differently.

“Billy Blanchard,” she said, and she only called him Billy Blanchard when she wanted to scold him, “I’ve known you for a long time.  And I’m sure that there’s no harm in you.  Of course,” she sighed, “I wish that you could feel a little more in sympathy with the spiritual side of our work.  But I’ve argued with you, more than once, on that point!”

The doctor, who was packing medicines into his bag, looked up.

“You know, you old dear,” he told her, “that I’m hopeless.  I haven’t had an easy row to hoe, not ever; you wouldn’t be religious yourself if you were in my shoes!  There—­don’t look so shocked—­you’ve been a mother to me in your funny, fussy way, since I came to this place!  That’s the main reason, I guess, that I stick here, as I do, when I could make a lot more money somewhere else!” He reached up to pat her thin hand, and then, “But why are you worrying, just now, about my soul?” he questioned.

The Superintendent sighed again.