shifting attitudes of her reading, they fell as gently as flower-stalks
swaying together in a breeze. He saw that her shoulders had a slight
slope, which combined with hands and eyes to express a being all
feminine--the kind made for a lodestone to a man who has known the hard
spots of the world, like Mr. Walter Huntington Blake.

"A pippin!" pronounced Mr. Blake, the man.

Dr. Blake, the physician, on the other hand, caught a certain languor
in her movements, a physical tenuity which, in a patient, he would have
considered diagnostic. So transparent was her skin that when her
profile dipped forward across a bar of sunshine the light shone through
the bridge of her nose--a little observation charming to Blake, the
man, but a guide to Blake, the physician. She had the look, Dr. Blake
told himself, which old-fashioned country nurses of the herb-doctor
school refer to as "called." He knew that, in about one case out of
three, that look does in fact amount to a real "call"--the outward
expression of an obscure disease.

"Her heart?" queried Blake, the physician. The transparent, porcelain
quality of her skin would indicate that. But he found, as he watched,
no nervous twitching, no look as of an incipient sack under her eyes;
nor did the transparent quality seem waxy. There was, too, a certain
pinkness in the porcelain which showed that her blood ran red and pure.

Then Mr. Blake and Dr. Blake re-fused into one psychology and decided
that her appearance of delicacy was subtly psychological. It haunted
him with an irritating effect of familiarity--as of a symptom which he
ought to recognize. In all ways was it intertwined with the expression
of her mouth. She had never smiled enough; therein lay all the trouble.