Rogers' office to indulge in memory. She
had come to see the lady who was so busily addressing envelopes and,
after a decent interval of polite abstraction, she devoted herself
cautiously to this purpose.
Nurse Watkins, before Desire's entrance, had not been addressing
envelopes. She had been reading. Her book lay open upon the window-
sill and Desire, having good eyes, could read its title upside down.
It was not a title which she knew, nor, if titles tell anything, did
it belong to a book which invited knowing. Desire felt almost
certain that it was not a book which Mary would care to read. Still,
one never could tell. The professor had said nothing whatever about
Mary's literary taste.
Desire's eyes strayed, vaguely, from the book to its owner. Only
Miss Watkins' profile was visible but it was a profile well worth
attention. People who cannot choose their literature are often quite
successful with their caps. Miss Watkins' cap was just right. And
her hair was certainly yellow. Desire frowned.
Miss Watkins, looking up, caught the frown.
"Doctor really can't be long now," she drawled sympathetically.
Desire felt that the sympathy, like the assurance, was professional-
-an afterglow, perhaps of sympathy which had existed once, before
life had overdrawn its account. She felt, also, that Miss Watkins'
nose was decidedly good. It was straight, with the nicest little
blunt point; and her eyes were blue--not misty blue, like the hills,
but a passable blue for all that.
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