“It showed inspiration, Miss Gleason says.  The tears came into her eyes; I understood her to say it was godlike.  ‘And only to think, doctor,’” he continued, with a clumsy, but unmistakable suggestion of Miss Gleason’s perfervid manner, “’that such a girl should be dragged down by her own mother to the level of petty, every-day cares and duties, and should be blamed for the most beautiful act of self-sacrifice!  Is n’t it too bad?’”

“Rufus, Rufus!” cried his mother, “I can’t stun’ it!  Stop!”

“Oh, Dr. Breen is n’t so bad—­not half so divine as Miss Gleason thinks her.  And Mrs. Maynard does n’t consider her surrendering the case an act of self-sacrifice at all.”

“I should hope not!” said Mrs. Mulbridge.  “I guess she would n’t have been alive to tell the tale, if it had n’t been for you.”

“Oh, you can’t be sure of that.  You must n’t believe too much in doctors, mother.  Mrs. Maynard is pretty tough.  And she’s had wonderfully good nursing.  You’ve only heard the Barlow side of the matter,” said her sun, betraying now for the first time that he had been aware of any knowledge of it on her part.  That was their way:  though they seldom told each other anything, and went on as if they knew nothing of each other’s affairs, yet when they recognized this knowledge it was without surprise on either side.  “I could tell you a different story.  She’s a very fine girl, mother; cool and careful under instruction, and perfectly tractable and intelligent.  She’s as different from those other women you’ve seen as you are.  You would like her!” He had suddenly grown earnest, and crushing the crust of a biscuit in the strong left hand which he rested on the table, he gazed keenly at her undemonstrative face.  “She’s no baby, either.  She’s got a will and a temper of her own.  She’s the only one of them I ever saw that was worth her salt.”

“I thought you did n’t like self-willed women,” said his mother impassively.

“She knows when to give up,” he answered, with unrelaxed scrutiny.

His mother did not lift her eyes, yet.  “How long shall you have to visit over there?”

“I’ve made my last professional visit.”

“Where are you going this morning?”

“To Jocelyn’s.”

Mrs. Mulbridge now looked up, and met her son’s eye.  “What makes you think she’ll have you?”

He did not shrink at her coming straight to the point the moment the way was clear.  He had intended it, and he liked it.  But he frowned a little as he said, “Because I want her to have me, for one thing.”  His jaw closed heavily, but his face lost a certain brutal look almost as quickly as it had assumed it.  “I guess,” he said, with a smile, “that it’s the only reason I’ve got.”

“You no need to say that,” said his mother, resenting the implication that any woman would not have him.

“Oh, I’m not pretty to look at, mother, and I’m not particularly young; and for a while I thought there might be some one, else.”