“The question has come up, how was this disease brought to your child?  Dr. Perrin suggested that possibly he—­you understand his fear; and possibly he is correct.  But it seems to me an illustration of the unwisdom of a physician’s departing from his proper duty, which is to cure people.  If you wish to find out who brought a disease, what you need is a detective.  I know, of course, that there are people who can combine the duties of physician and detective—­and that without any previous preparation or study of either profession.”

He waited for this irony to sink in; and Sylvia also waited, patiently.

At last he resumed, “The idea has been planted in your mind that your husband brought the trouble; and that idea is sure to stay there and fester.  So it becomes necessary for someone to talk to you straight.  Let me tell you that eight men out of ten have had this disease at some time in their lives; also that very few of them were cured of it when they thought they were.  You have a cold:  and then next month, you say the cold is gone.  So it is, for practical purposes.  But if I take a microscope, I find the germs of the cold still in your membranes, and I know that you can give a cold, and a bad cold, to some one else who is sensitive.  It is true that you may go through all the rest of your life without ever being entirely rid of that cold.  You understand me?”

“Yes,” said Sylvia, in a low voice.

“I say eight out of ten.  Estimates would differ.  Some doctors would say seven out of ten—­and some actual investigations have shown nine out of ten.  And understand me, I don’t mean bar-room loafers and roustabouts.  I mean your brothers, if you have any, your cousins, your best friends, the men who came to make love to you, and whom you thought of marrying.  If you had found it out about any one of them, of course you’d have cut the acquaintance; yet you’d have been doing an injustice—­for if you had done that to all who’d ever had the disease, you might as well have retired to a nunnery at once.”

The old gentleman paused again; then frowning at her under his bushy eye-brows, he exclaimed, “I tell you, Mrs. van Tuiver, you’re doing your husband a wrong.  Your husband loves you, and he’s a good man—­I’ve had some talks with him, and I know he’s not got nearly so much on his conscience as the average husband.  I’m a Southern man, and I know these gay young bloods you’ve danced and flirted with all your young life.  Do you think if you went probing into their secret affairs, you’d have had much pleasure in their company afterwards?  I tell you again, you’re doing your husband a wrong!  You’re doing something that very few men would stand, as patiently as he has stood it so far.”