Tuesday.
Isn't it funny, the way some inconsequential people have of pouring out
whatever happens to be churning about in their minds at the moment? They
seem to have no residue of small talk, and are never able to dismiss a
crisis in order to discuss the weather.
This is apropos of a call I received today. A woman had come to deliver
her sister's child--sister in a sanatorium for tuberculosis; we to keep
the child until the mother is cured, though I fear, from what I hear,
that will never be. But, anyway, all the arrangements had been made, and
the woman had merely to hand in the little girl and retire. But having a
couple of hours between trains, she intimated a desire to look about, so
I showed her the kindergarten rooms and the little crib that Lily will
occupy, and our yellow dining room, with its frieze of bunnies, in order
that she might report as many cheerful details as possible to the poor
mother. After this, as she seemed tired, I socially asked her to walk
into my parlor and have a cup of tea. Doctor MacRae, being at hand and
in a hungry mood (a rare state for him; he now condescends to a cup of
tea with the officers of this institution about twice a month), came,
too, and we had a little party.
The woman seemed to feel that the burden of entertainment rested upon
her, and by way of making conversation, she told us that her husband had
fallen in love with the girl who sold tickets at a moving picture show
(a painted, yellow-haired thing who chewed gum like a cow, was her
description of the enchantress), and he spent all of his money on the
girl, and never came home except when he was drunk. Then he smashed the
furniture something awful. An easel, with her mother's picture on it,
that she had had since before she was married, he had thrown down just
for the pleasure of hearing it crash. And finally she had just got too
tired to live, so she drank a bottle of swamp root because somebody had
told her it was poison if you took it all at once. But it didn't kill
her; it only made her sick. And he came back, and said he would choke
her if she ever tried that on him again; so she guessed he must still
care something for her. All this quite casually while she stirred her
tea.
I tried to think of something to say, but it was a social exigency that
left me dumb. But Sandy rose to the occasion like a gentleman. He talked
to her beautifully and sanely, and sent her away actually uplifted. Our
Sandy, when he tries, can be exceptionally nice, particularly to people
who have no claim upon him. I suppose it is a matter of professional
etiquette--part of a doctor's business to heal the spirit as well as the
body. Most spirits appear to need it in this world. My caller has left
me needing it. I have been wondering ever since what I should do if I
married a man who deserted me for a chewing gum girl, and who came home
and smashed the bric-a-brac. I suppose, judging from the theaters this
winter, that it is a thing that might happen to any one, particularly in
the best society.