"

He looked at her with a flicker of interest.

"Oh? Why did you think that?"

She felt confused.

"I'm not quite sure. Something about you suggests a scientist. I
worked one summer with a Rockefeller Institute man who was doing
research. Perhaps that's why."

"Who was he?"

"Dr. Blumenfeld. He was working on infantile paralysis."

He nodded. "Blumenfeld; yes, I know him. He's on the wrong tack."

Slowly he hoisted his big body up out of the chair, giving the
impression that the interview was finished.

"What am I to understand, then, doctor? Do you think you will want me?"

He bent his cold and impersonal gaze on her and again she felt
oppressed. Her eyes dwelt on his rather ugly, flattish forehead, which
somehow fascinated her. He appeared to be thinking of something else
and trying at the same time to bring his attention to bear on the
problem of the moment.

"Ah yes. I'll probably let you know this evening, after I've seen that
letter. What is your address?"

She gave him the name of her small hotel and he wrote it down. Then
suddenly she recalled the question of salary, which had escaped his
notice altogether.

"One thing more, doctor. You haven't told me what you pay."

He mentioned a sum in francs; she put it quickly into dollars. It was
a much smaller amount than she made in America, but she thought she
could live on it. After all, was it not worth a little managing to
stay on in this beautiful sunny place?

"You'll get your lunches here--and your tea," the doctor informed her.

He moved towards the door, plainly anxious to be rid of her. It
crossed her mind that seldom had she seen a medical man with a less
genial personality. She found it an effort to answer naturally,
suddenly wondering what it would be like to have her lunch in this
house, and whether she had to have it with him.

"All right, doctor, I won't look further till I've heard from you."

At the front door she looked up at him and was about to hold out her
hand, but one glimpse of his dour, preoccupied face made her change her
mind. Still, it was so incurably her habit to be trusting and friendly
that on the doorstep she turned to shed on him her candid smile--only
to find the door already closed. The rebuff was like a cold shower; it
made her catch her breath. Had she made a bad impression on the man?
Did he consider her rather confiding simplicity unbusinesslike? She
resolved hastily to cultivate a se