Winifred listened to his narration with the profoundest attention; and, when it concluded, her tearful eye and throbbing bosom told how deeply her feelings had been interested. He put an arm around her. ’—he’s frightfully anti-Mendelian—having it all their own way. She shrugged her shoulders. Little by little, she stopped hating him. She wanted to return his gaze but focused intently on a spot next to and above the brick fireplace, as her music teachers had always taught her to do instead of looking directly at the audience. Straitened circumstances would not have mattered; a mother would have managed somehow. The blue jowl, the fat-lidded eyes—now merry, now alert, now tungsten hard—the bullet head, the pudgy fingers and the square-toed shoes were all in conformation with the doctor's olden mental picture. I want you to hold me and have me SO. She had just passed into a little antechamber beyond when she suddenly heard a faint knocking.
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