"But it hadn't happened then!"
"Hadn't it?" There was no contradiction in the response. But it brought
him to a sudden pause.
"Why--of course not! I don't believe it had! Do you know anything?" He
turned on her swiftly.
"No, I don't know anything." Aunt Jane was cheerful. "Not anything I
could put my finger on," she added slowly. "But I kind of sensed,
somehow, that they'd got things settled--between 'em."
"Oh, you 'sensed'!" he scoffed gently.
"Well--she'll make him a good wife," Aunt Jane rocked. "Of course, he
don't need a rich wife----"
"No, I don't want him to marry money!" Medfield spoke with satisfaction.
His magnanimity overspread the poverty of his son's wife--and welcomed
it and exulted in it.
Aunt Jane's face was tranquil--and somewhere deep below, little twinkles
came up to the surface and stirred it.
"Well, he doesn't need to marry her money--" she said slowly. "He can't
help her having it, of course. But she'll make him just as good a wife."
He stared. "I must have given you a wrong impression." He was polite
about it. "Julian is going to marry Miss Canfield."
"Mary Canfield has money--more money than most folks. She's going to
make a good nurse, though. She came in and took the training as if she
hadn't a cent to her name--She said she wanted to be something besides
Sheldon Canfield's----"
"Sheldon Canfield!" He took it up. "Was Sheldon Canfield her father?"
"His name was Sheldon," said Aunt Jane. "Maybe you've heard of him?"
Herman Medfield laughed shortly. "He did me out of a million dollars!
Sheldon Canfield!" He looked at the thought and shook it. "I fought him
for ten years. I swore I would break him before I died-- But _he_ died
first! Sheldon Canfield's daughter!" He held it before him. "So Sheldon
Canfield's daughter has been taking care of _me_!"
"She's taken good care of you!" said Aunt Jane. It was almost defensive;
and he gave her a quick look.
"The best of care!" he said emphatically. "Couldn't have been
better--unless you had done it yourself," he ended gallantly.
Aunt Jane's look cleared, and then became a little confused--under
something that danced in the eyes bent upon her.
"I must go do my work," she said.
"And leave me to my Juliet?"
"Julian, I suppose you mean," Aunt Jane corrected him kindly.
"He's Romeo--of the house of Montague!" he said dreamily.
She stared a little. He waved a hand.
"Go away, Aunt Jane, and do your work. You have disturbed me--even more
than usual. I want to collect my thoughts!"
She went out almost soberly, turning it in her mind, on the way to her
office. She had upset him and she was a little remorseful! She ought not
to have let him run on like that! There was no telling that he would not
have a setback.... And they needed Suite A for Dr. Carmon's new patient
Friday.... He had said Herman Medfield was well enough to go home--that
he would be better off at home.
She entered the office--and stopped.
On a chair across the room, was a long, light box.
Aunt Jane almost fancied she had been dreaming, and had never opened
that box.... She contemplated it and went over to it slowly--and looked
at her desk, where the great flaming roses gave out their fragrance....
She went back to the box and took it up slowly, and undid the tape.
It was filled to the brim with roses--great pink-and-white heads glowed
through the transparent waxed paper at her--and on top of the paper lay
a card--with the name uppermost----
"Dr. Frederic H. Carmon."
Aunt Jane stared at it.
She reached out a hand to it--as if fascinated and almost afraid--and
took it up and turned it over slowly.... There was no writing! She laid
it back with a little quick sigh of relief--and stared down at it....
Presently a shrewd look of amusement overspread the stupefaction in her
face and she nodded to the little card and took it up and carried it to
her desk and unlocked a drawer--moving the great flaming roses to reach
it. She dropped the card beside the other one that lay there--and the
amusement in her face grew to soft chuckles that filled all the spaces
in her roundness.
When she had arranged the pink-and-white roses and carried them to her
desk and placed them opposite the flaming ones, she stood back and
surveyed them--and shook her head--and smiled radiantly to them.
A man, who had come quietly down the hall, stood in the open door of the
office. He watched her a minute.
He cleared his throat circumspectly.
She turned swiftly--and saw him--and moved a reproachful hand to the
flowers.
"You never ought to have done it!"
He smiled on the roses complacently and removed his gloves.
"Like 'em?" he asked.
She shook her head. "I haven't any call to like them--or not to like
them!" It was severe disapproval. "You ought to be ashamed of yourself!"
"I'm not!" He looked at them with satisfaction. He was whistling softly.
"I didn't know you wanted flowers--or I'd have sent them before."
He had turned--his glance was on her face.
Something in the glance sent Aunt Jane hastily across the room. She
straightened the furniture a little and came back to the desk and looked
at the bunches of roses on either side, regarding them impartially.
"I hadn't ought to want flowers--goodness knows!" she said slowly. "I
see enough of 'em, around every day, to make any one sick of them for
life." She paused and studied the pink-and-white blossoms.
"Somehow, it's different--when they're your own! I guess maybe I did
need to have them sent to me--so I'd know how folks feel inside--when I
open their boxes for them and they look in and see the flowers and see
somebody's card on top--somebody that's thought about them--somebody
that loves 'em!" she ended it triumphantly and happily and
smiled--sharing it with him.
Dr. Carmon looked at the two great bunches of flowers--and grunted--and
went out.