silently, with a
surgeon's deftness. Lydia sat quiet for some time, looking at him.
Finally, "I hadn't been crying because of dirty dishes," she told him;
"I'm not such a child as that. Marietta has been here. She said some
things pretty hard to bear about her not having been invited to that
awful dinner party. I didn't know what she was talking about a good deal
of the time--it was all about what a snob and traitor to my family I was
growing to be."

"You mustn't blame Marietta too much," said the doctor, rinsing and
beginning to dry the plates with what seemed to Lydia's fatigued languor
really miraculous speed. "It's true that she watches your social advance
with the calm disinterestedness of a cat watching somebody pour cream
out of a jug. She wants her saucerful. But look here. Did I ever tell
you about the man Montaigne speaks of who spent all his life to acquire
the skill necessary to throw a grain of millet through the eye of a
needle? Well, that man was proud of it, but poor Marietta's haunted by
doubts as to whether in her case it's been worth while. It makes her
naturally inclined to be snappy."

He was so used to delighting in Lydia's understanding of his perversely
obscure figures of speech that he turned about, surprised to hear no
appreciative comment. She was looking away with troubled eyes.

"Paul will think I ought not to have let Marietta talk to me like
that--that I ought to have resented it. I never can remember to resent
things."

The doctor began setting out polished water glasses on a tray. "It is
the glory of a man to pass by an offense," he quoted. "Ah, don't you
suppose if we knew all about things we'd feel as relieved at not having
resented an injury as if we had held our hands from striking a blind man
who had inadvertently run against us?"

There was no response. It was the second time that one of his metaphors,
far-fetched as he loved them, but usually intelligible to Lydia, had
missed fire. He turned on her sharply. "What are you thinking about?" he
asked.

She raised her tragic eyes to his. "About the mashed potatoes last
night--they didn't have a bit of salt in them--they were too nasty
for--"

"Oh, pshaw! It makes no difference whether your dinner party was a
success or not! You know that as well as I do. A dinner party is a relic
of the Dark Ages, anyhow--if not of the Stone Age! As a physician, I
shudder to see people sitting down to gorge themselves on the richest
possible