The doctor, who lived on the corner, a shabby, coarse little man, roused
her from a fevered dream. He asked a few questions perfunctorily, turned
the small face to the light a moment, and cynically shrugged his
shoulders.
"Small-pox," was his laconic remark, when he had followed Miss De Courcy
into the next room.
"Then she's going to stay right here," said that young woman firmly.
"Well, I guess _not_" replied the doctor, looking her over. "How about
your own complexion if you take it?" he added, planting a question he
expected to tell.
Miss De Courcy's remark was couched in such forcible terms that I think
I had better not repeat it. It ought to have convinced any doctor
living that her complexion was her own affair.
"Oh! that's all right," replied the man of science, unoffended, a tardy
recognition of her valor showing through his easy insolence. "But how
about the Board of Health, and how about me? She's better off in a
hospital, any way. You can't take care of her," with a scornful glance
at the draggled finery and striking hat. "What do you want to try it
for? I can't let the contagion spread all over the house, you know; how
would you get anything to eat? No, it's no use. She's got to go. I'm not
going to ruin my reputation as a doctor, and--"
Miss De Courcy smiled sweetly into the doctor's hard, common face.
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