pg5247 [258]
Her mind searched backwards, and recalled a poster.
"Oh!" she replied. "'La Debacle'?"
"Yes. What do ye think of it?" His eyes lighted at the prospect of a talk. He was even pleased to hear her give him the title in French.
"I haven't read it," she said, and she was momentarily sorry that she had not read it, for she could see that he was dashed. The doctor had supposed that residence in a foreign country involved a knowledge of the literature of that country. Yet he had never supposed that residence in England involved a knowledge of English literature. Sophia had read practically nothing since 1870; for her the latest author was Cherbuliez. Moreover, her impression of Zola was that he was not at all nice, and that he was the enemy of his race, though at that date the world had scarcely heard of Dreyfus. Dr. Stirling had too hastily assumed that the opinions of the bourgeois upon art differ in different countries.
"And ye actually were in the siege of Paris?" he questioned, trying again.
"Yes."
"AND the commune?"
"Yes, the commune too."
"Well!" he exclaimed. "It's incredible! When I was reading the 'Downfall' the night before last, I said to myself that you must have been through a lot of all that. I didn't know I was going to have the pleasure of a chat with ye so soon."
She smiled. "But how did you know I was in the siege of Paris?" she asked, curious.
"How do I know? I know because I've seen that birthday card ye sent to Mrs. Povey in 1871, after it was over. It's one of her possessions, that card is. She showed it me one day when she told me ye were coming."
Sophia started. She had quite forgotten that card. It had not occurred to her that Constance would have treasured all those cards that she had despatched during the early years of her exile. She responded as well as she could to his eagerness for personal details concerning the siege and the commune. He might have been disappointed at the prose of her answers, had he not been determined not to be disappointed.
"Ye seem to have taken it all very quietly," he observed.
"Eh yes!" she agreed, not without pride. "But it's a long time since."
Those events, as they existed in her memory, scarcely warranted the tremendous fuss subsequently made about them. What were they, after all? Such was her secret thought. Chirac himself was now nothing but a faint shadow. Still, were the estimate of those events true or false, she was a woman who had been through them, and Dr. Stirling's high appreciation of that fact was very pleasant to her. Their friendliness approached intimacy. Night had fallen. Outside could be heard the champing of a bit.
"I must be getting on," he said at last; but he did not move.
"Then there is nothing else I am to do for my sister?" Sophia inquired.
"I don't think so," said he. "It isn't a question of medicine."
"Then what is it a question of?" Sophia demanded bluntly.
"Nerves," he said. "It's nearly all nerves. I know something about Mrs. Povey's constitution now, and I was hoping that your visit would do her good."
"She's been quite well—I mean what you may call quite well—until the day before yesterday, when she sat in that draught. She was better last night, and then this morning I find her ever so much worse."
"No worries?" The doctor looked at her confidentially.
"What CAN she have in the way of worries?" exclaimed Sophia. "That's to say—real worries."
"Exactly!" the doctor agreed.
"I tell her she doesn't know what worry is," said Sophia.
"So do I!" said the doctor, his eyes twinkling.
"She was a little upset because she didn't receive her usual Sunday letter from Cyril yesterday. But then she was weak and low."
"Clever youth, Cyril!" mused the doctor.
"I think he's a particularly nice boy," said Sophia, eagerly,
"So you've seen him?"
"Of course," said Sophia, rather stiffly. Did the doctor suppose that she did not know her own nephew? She went back to the subject of her sister. "She is also a little bothered, I think, because the servant is going to leave."
"Oh! So Amy