ady
girls who toil?"
"That is a remarkable sentence," said Edith. "Do you mind saying it
again?"
Mrs. Aylmer looked at her and smiled.
"I won't say it again," she said, "for it does not fit the circumstance.
You do not toil."
"But indeed I do; I work extremely hard--often eight or nine hours a
day."
"Good gracious! How crushing! But you don't look bad."
"I have no intention of being bad, for I enjoy my work. I am studying to
be a lady doctor."
"Oh, don't," said Mrs. Aylmer. She immediately drew down her veil and
seated herself in such a position that the light should not fall on her
face.
"I have heard of those awful medical women," she said, after a pause,
"and I assure you the mere idea of them makes me ill. I hope they will
never become the fashion. You expect medical knowledge in a man, but not
in a woman. My dear, pray don't stare at me; you may discover that I
have some secret disease which I do not know of myself. I do not wish it
found out even if it exists. Please keep your eyes off me."
"I am not going to diagnose your case, if that is what you mean,"
replied Edith, with a smile. "I am by no means qualified: I have to pass
my exams in America."
"Thank you." Mrs. Aylmer sighed again. "It is a relief to know that at
present you understand but little of the subject. I hope some good man
may marry you and prevent your becoming that monster--a woman doctor.
But now to change the subject. I am extremely anxious for my daughter to
return. I have bad news for her. Can you tell me how she is?"
"Well, I think," replied Edith.
"You know her."
"Oh, yes, rather intimately. Have you not heard our news?"
"What news?"
"She is engaged to my brother."
"What?" cried Mrs. Aylmer. She sprang to her feet; she forgot in her
excitement all fear of the embryo medical woman. She dropped her cloak
and rushed forward to where Edith was standing and seized both her
hands.
"My girl engaged to your brother! And pray who is your brother?"
"A very rising journalist, a remarkably clever man. It is, let me tell
you, Mrs. Aylmer, an excellent match for your daughter."
"Oh, that remains to be seen. I don't at all know that I countenance the
engagement."
"I am afraid you cannot help it now. Florence is of age. I wonder she
did not write to you."
"I may not have received her letter. The fact is I have been away from
home for the last day or two. But I wish she would return, as I have
come on most
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