He hadn't wanted to stay in the first place.
"Shall I bind your hand for you?" I asked. But the doctor refused.
He tapped his foot on the floor, and hemmed, and looked at me
strangely. Then:
"Sophronisba Two, you consider me a reasonably decent sort, don't
you?"
"That goes without saying."
"Think I'd make a woman a reasonably good husband?"
"I do," said I, truthfully. Whatever ailed the man?
"Good! And I," the doctor said, deliberately, "know that you'd make
any man more than a reasonably good wife. Should you like to be
mine, Sophronisba Two?"
The jump I gave threw Potty Black off my knees.
"You're ill, wandering in your wits, you poor man!" I was genuinely
alarmed. "Isn't there something I can do for you, doctor?"
"There is: you can marry me, if you want to," replied the doctor,
soberly. "Honestly, my dear girl, I'd be kind to you. I like and
admire and respect you more than I can tell you, Sophy."
"My dear friend," I said, when I caught my breath, "I like, admire,
and respect you, too. But people who marry each other need something
more than that. They--well, they need--love."
His shoulders twitched.
"This business of love is the devil's own invention!" he cried.
Pages:
208
209
210
211
212
213
214
215
216
217
218
219
220
221
222
223
224
225
226
227
228
229
230
231
232