At the supper table this night she found
Whistling Dan watching her--not openly, for she could never catch his
eye--but subtly, secretly, she knew that he was measuring her, studying
her; whether in hostility, amity, or mere wonder, she could not tell.
Finally a vast uneasiness overtook her and she turned to the doctor for
relief. Doctor Randall Byrne held a singular position in the attention
of Kate. Since the night of the fire and her open talk with him, the
doctor knew "everything," and women are troubled in the presence of a
man who knows the details of the past.
The shield behind which they hide in social intercourse is a touch of
mystery--or at least a hope of mystery. The doctor, however, was not
like other men; he was more similar to a precocious child and she
comforted herself in his obvious talent for silence. If he had been
alert, strong, self-confident, she might have hated him because he knew
so much about her; but when she noted the pale, thoughtful face, the
vast forehead outbalancing the other features, and the wistful,
uncertain eyes, she felt nothing towards him stronger than pity.
It is good for a woman to have something which she may pity, a child, an
aged parent, or a house-dog. It provides, in a way, the background
against which she acts; so Kate, when in doubt, turned to the doctor, as
on this night. There was a certain cruelty in it, for when she smiled at
him the poor doctor became crimson, and when she talked to him his
answers stumbled on his tongue; and when she was silent and merely
looked at him that was worst of all, for he became unable to manage
knife and fork and would sit crumbling bread and looking frightened.
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