Dear Enemy

Tuesday.

Isn't it funny, the way some inconsequential people have of pouring out

whatever happens to be churning about in their minds at the moment? They

seem to have no residue of small talk, and are never able to dismiss a

crisis in order to discuss the weather.

This is apropos of a call I received today. A woman had come to deliver

her sister's child--sister in a sanatorium for tuberculosis; we to keep

the child until the mother is cured, though I fear, from what I hear,

that will never be. But, anyway, all the arrangements had been made, and

the woman had merely to hand in the little girl and retire. But having a

couple of hours between trains, she intimated a desire to look about, so

I showed her the kindergarten rooms and the little crib that Lily will

occupy, and our yellow dining room, with its frieze of bunnies, in order

that she might report as many cheerful details as possible to the poor

mother. After this, as she seemed tired, I socially asked her to walk

into my parlor and have a cup of tea. Doctor MacRae, being at hand and

in a hungry mood (a rare state for him; he now condescends to a cup of

tea with the officers of this institution about twice a month), came,

too, and we had a little party.

The woman seemed to feel that the burden of entertainment rested upon

her, and by way of making conversation, she told us that her husband had

fallen in love with the girl who sold tickets at a moving picture show

(a painted, yellow-haired thing who chewed gum like a cow, was her

description of the enchantress), and he spent all of his money on the

girl, and never came home except when he was drunk. Then he smashed the

furniture something awful. An easel, with her mother's picture on it,

that she had had since before she was married, he had thrown down just

for the pleasure of hearing it crash. And finally she had just got too

tired to live, so she drank a bottle of swamp root because somebody had

told her it was poison if you took it all at once. But it didn't kill

her; it only made her sick. And he came back, and said he would choke

her if she ever tried that on him again; so she guessed he must still

care something for her. All this quite casually while she stirred her

tea.

I tried to think of something to say, but it was a social exigency that

left me dumb. But Sandy rose to the occasion like a gentleman. He talked

to her beautifully and sanely, and sent her away actually uplifted. Our

Sandy, when he tries, can be exceptionally nice, particularly to people

who have no claim upon him. I suppose it is a matter of professional

etiquette--part of a doctor's business to heal the spirit as well as the

body. Most spirits appear to need it in this world. My caller has left

me needing it. I have been wondering ever since what I should do if I

married a man who deserted me for a chewing gum girl, and who came home

and smashed the bric-a-brac. I suppose, judging from the theaters this

winter, that it is a thing that might happen to any one, particularly in

the best society.