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Page 51

Peter had no finesse. He escorted Mrs. Boyer across the yard and
through the gate with hardly a word. With the gate closed behind
them he turned and faced her:--

"You are going away with a wrong impression, Mrs. Boyer."

Mrs. Boyer had been thinking hard as she crossed the yard. The
result was a resolution to give Peter a piece of her mind. She
drew her ample proportions into a dignity that was almost
majesty.

"Yes?"

"I--I can understand why you think as you do. It is quite without
foundation."

"I am glad of that." There was no conviction in her voice.

"Of course," went on Peter, humbling himself for Harmony's sake,
"I suppose it has been rather unconventional, but Dr. Gates is
not a young woman by any means, and she takes very good care of
Miss Wells. There were reasons why this seemed the best thing to
do. Miss Wells was alone and--"

"There is a Dr. Gates?"

"Of course. If you will come back and wait she'll be along very
soon."

Mrs. Boyer was convinced and defrauded in one breath; convinced
that there might be a Dr. Gates, but equally convinced that the
situation was anomalous and certainly suspicious; defrauded in
that she had lost the anticipated pleasure of giving Peter a
piece of her mind. She walked along beside him without speaking
until they reached the street-car line. Then she turned.

"You called her--you spoke to her very affectionately, young
man," she accused him.

Peter smiled. The car was close. Some imp of recklessness, some
perversion of humor seized him.

"My dear Mrs. Boyer," he said, "that was in jest purely. Besides,
I did not know that you were there!"

Mrs. Boyer was a literal person without humor. It was outraged
American womanhood incarnate that got into the street-car and
settled its broadcloth of the best quality indignantly on the
cane seat. It was outraged American womanhood that flung open the
door of Marie Jedlicka's flat, and stalking into Marie Jedlicka's
sitting room confronted her husband as he read a month-old
newspaper from home.

"Did you ever hear of a woman doctor named Gates?" she demanded.

Boyer was not unaccustomed to such verbal attacks. He had learned
to meet domestic broadsides with a shield of impenetrable good
humor, or at the most with a return fire of mild sarcasm.

"I never hear of a woman doctor if it can be avoided."

"Dr. Gates--Anna Gates?"

"There are a number here. I meet them in the hospital, but I
don't know their names."

"Where does Peter Byrne live?"

"In a pension, I believe, my dear. Are we going to have anything
to eat or do we sup of Peter Byrne?"

Mrs. Boyer made no immediate reply. She repaired to the bedroom
of Marie Jedlicka, and placed her hat, coat and furs on one of
the beds with the crocheted coverlets. It is a curious thing
about rooms. There was no change in the bedroom apparent to the
eye, save that for Marie's tiny slippers at the foot of the
wardrobe there were Mrs. Boyer's substantial house shoes. But in
some indefinable way the room had changed. About it hung an
atmosphere of solid respectability, of impeccable purity that
soothed Mrs. Boyer's ruffled virtue into peace. Is it any wonder
that there is a theory to the effect that things take on the
essential qualities of people who use them, and that we are
haunted by things, not people? That when grandfather's wraith is
seen in his old armchair it is the chair that produces it, while
grandfather himself serenely haunts the shades of some vast
wilderness of departed spirits?

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Books | Photos | Paul Mutton | Tue 23rd Dec 2025, 16:39

The Street of Seven Stars by Mary Roberts Rinehart