"Irene is our only child, and before your very eyes you
see her--you see her--" Mrs. Hardy's fears were too nebulous to enable
her to complete the sentence.
"Yes, I see her," the doctor admitted. "That is, I did see her at
dinner. There is nothing alarming about that." Then, relenting, "But,
seriously, what reason have you for uneasiness about the child?"
"Reason enough. She behaves so strangely. Do you know, I begin--I
really do begin to suspect that she's in love."
It was Dr. Hardy's turn to sit upright. "Nonsense," he said. "Why
should she be in love?" It is the unfortunate limitation of the
philosopher that he so often leaves irrational behaviour out of the
reckoning. "She is only a child."
"She will be eighteen presently. And why shouldn't she be in love?
And the question is--who? That is for you to answer. Whom did she
meet?"
"If you would find a Hamlet at the root of this melancholy you must ask
our Ophelia. She met no one with me. My accident left me to enjoy my
holiday as best I could at a ranch deep in the foothills, and Reenie
stayed with me there. There was no one else--"
"No one? No ranch men, cowboys,--cow punchers--I think I have
heard,"--with nice disdain.
"No. Only young Elden--"
"_Only_? Who is this young Elden?"
"But he is just a boy. Just the son of the old rancher of whom I have
told you."
"Exactly. And Irene is just a girl. Dr. Hardy, you are all very well
with your fevers and your chills, but you can't diagnose a love case
worth a cent.
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