Things

								

were a pleasure to me. But if I ask Celia to go on an errand for me--or
even to attend to something for herself--I am met by the look of a
martyr or a rebel. But that is not the worst. At times, Dr. Despard,
her language to me is violent--is--actually profane. I cannot help
looking on this as an abnormal manifestation. At last I saw her case
was pathological. No nice girl swears at her mother, and”--Mrs. Royce
smiled--“my daughter is a nice girl.”
It seemed to him that Mrs. Royce must be a very nice mother indeed.
Soft, serious, and eminently maternal, she appealed profoundly to all
his bachelor ideals.
“And your husband?” he asked. “How does he get on with his daughter?”
“Admirably,” she returned warmly; “they hardly see each other.”
He glanced quickly at her to see if her intention were humorous, but
something mechanical in her smile had already warned him that her mind
was bent on other of life’s aspects than the comic. Now she was quite
serious, and he replied with equal gravity:
“It is often the solution.”
They decided, at length, that he was to spend a few days with them
in the country. To bring the girl to his office would be useless. He
would find her a gentle, well-behaved little creature, perhaps too much
interested in her books. The exigencies of the children’s education
kept the Royces in town during the week, but they spent Saturday and
Sunday at the old Royce place on the Hudson. Here Despard promised to
come at the first opportunity.
She thanked him, and held out a strong, firm hand.
No, he thought when she had gone, he could not understand a girl’s
swearing at such a mother--at once so affectionate and so intelligent,
for, with pardonable egotism, Despard reckoned her bringing the problem
to him a proof of rare domestic intelligence. Most women would have
made it the subject of anger or tears.
He himself held no special brief for youth. The younger generation
did not attract him. His own nephews and nieces never made him return
disgusted to his loneliness, but rather raised his enjoyment of his
solitude.
Before he admitted his next patient he stood a moment contemplating
the sacrifices made by a parent. “It’s stupendous, it’s too much,” he
thought; and smiled to think that, if he had married, a child of his
might now be conducting him to a doctor’s office, for of the two he
would undoubtedly have been the first to swear.
After a week particularly crowded with the concerns of other people
Despard arrived, at high noon of a day in early April, at the Royces’
place. Never, he thought, had he seen peace so clearly embodied. A
dense, fresh lawn sloped down to the hazy river; splendid old trees
were everywhere; the serious stone house had been built with the
simple notions of comfort that existed a hundred years ago.
Mr. Royce, who met him at the station, seemed a peaceful sort of