“It’s a queer combination,” responded the doctor, smiling his slightly whimsical smile.  He was rather short, with an almost imperceptible limp, and he had, as he put it, “never gone in for sports.”  “There’s so much else when one comes to think of it,” he added, pausing, with his hat in his hand, at the door; “there are plenty of ways of having fun even without football.”  Then he turned away from the children, and said directly to Gabriella: 

“Will you come out with me to-morrow?  It is Sunday.”

“And leave the children?” she asked a little blankly.

“And leave the children!” He was laughing, but it occurred to her suddenly, for the first time, that her maternal raptures were beginning to bore him.  For a year she had believed that his interest in her was mainly a professional interest in the children; and now she was confronted with the disturbing fact that he wanted to be rid of the children for a few hours at least, that he evidently saw in her something besides the overwhelming force of her motherhood.

“But I never leave them on Sunday.  It is the only day I have with them,” she answered.

“Don’t go, mother!  You mustn’t go!” cried Fanny, and clung to her.

“Oh, very well,” returned Dr. French, dismissing the subject with irritation.  “But you look pale, and I thought the air might do you good.”

He went away rather abruptly, while Gabriella stood looking at Miss Polly in regret and perplexity.  “I hope I didn’t hurt his feelings by declining,” she said; and then, as the children raced into the nursery to take off their coats, she added slowly, “He couldn’t expect me to go without them.”

“If you want to know what I think,” replied Miss Polly flatly, “it is that he’s just sick to death of the children.  You’ve stuck them down his throat until he’s had as much of them as he can swallow.”

For a moment Gabriella considered this ruefully.

“You don’t honestly believe that he’s interested in me in that way?” she demanded in a horrified whisper.

“I don’t know but one way in which a man’s ever interested in a woman,” retorted Miss Polly.  “It’s either that way or it’s none at all, as far as I can see.  But if I was you, honey, I’d drop him a little encouragement now and then, just to keep up his spirits.  Men ain’t no mo’ than flesh and blood, after all” and it’s natural that he shouldn’t be as crazy about the children as you are.”

“But why should I encourage him?  Even if you are right, I couldn’t marry him.  I could never marry again.”

“I’d like to know why not, if you get a chance?  You’re free enough, ain’t you?”

“Yes, it isn’t that—­but I couldn’t.”

“You ain’t hankerin’ after George, are you, Gabriella?”

“After George?  No!” responded Gabriella with so sincere an accent that Miss Polly jumped.

“Well, I’m glad you ain’t,” observed the seamstress soothingly as she stooped to pick up her sewing.  “I shouldn’t think he was worth hankerin’ after, myself, but you’ve looked kind of peaked and thin this spring, so I’ve just been wonderin’.”