But there had always been things,
though he had never admitted it to himself, that he had missed. It
would have been pleasant to him if there had been some one who
shared his interest in the looks of the place and in the gardens and
orchards that were his special pride. He would have liked to have
his mother care about his patients, to play for him in the evenings,
perhaps, and to think about his tastes in little things. But though
a tall harp stood in a corner of the living-room, and a piano was
somewhere else, they were not often touched. Mrs. Hewitt was
passionately interested in people. She loved traveling and
house-parties and fads of all kinds--but she had no roots to speak
of. John had never felt so much as if his house was his home as he
did tonight, with the cold rain dashing against the windows outside,
and inside the warm light, and the busy girl sitting across from
him, sewing, and smiling to herself.
She looked up, as he glanced across at her contentedly, and spoke.
"I thought you seemed a little down tonight when you came in, John.
How is the little La Guardia girl? You were having something of a
struggle over her treatment the last time I went with you."
"By Jove, you have a memory!" said John, seeming a little startled.
"The child is worse today, and it was on my mind. How on earth did
you guess it, Joy?"
She only laughed softly.
"Don't you suppose I'm interested in your affairs? I don't like you
to be worried.
Pages:
157
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171
172
173
174
175
176
177
178
179
180
181