'Tell me what they were like."
The doctor frowned. "I don't know how to tell you. They were important here. Their father was an important man. So a young doctor, wanting to get along, naturally went to call there. You see, they were traveled. They seemed elegant and . . . well . . . cosmopolitan. You can see how I missed supposing that frequent calls would mean that I was committing myself."
"Yes, I see," said Duff. "You called on Miss Maud?"
"I called at the house," the doctor said. "Somehow or other, I usually saw Maud. I came to know her better than the others. Of course, Isabel was just a bit young for me. A restless nervous youngster, flying in and out."
"And Gertrude?"
"Oh, Gertrude was the most elegant of the three. The least . . . er . . . approachable. I really don't know what used to become of Gertrude."
"She withdrew, perhaps?"
"Yes, she did, rather."
"It's so often the girls," said Duff, "who decide which sister's property the man is." The doctor looked a little startled. "Miss Maud was attractive?"
The doctor winced. "She was a little less . . . er . .. formidable. Of course one didn't, in those days, think whether the Whitlock girls were attractive or not. They were a kind of social institution. Their house was like court. I wonder if you understand. We used to have rather formal, rather stiff, good times up there. The young men were always awed and being above themselves." The doctor's eyes twinkled behind his spectacles. "Oh, my, how we used to throw in our French phrases. And polish our shoes."
Duff said, "They had prestige. Can you imagine them without it?"
"No," said the doctor, "I can't." He brooded a moment. "The attraction was purely their position, although Stephen," he added thoughtfully, "was jolly."
"And the mother?"
"A little bit queer. A moody woman. A lonely woman. By nature, I mean."
"I see. Is Gertrude totally blind?"
The doctor, surprised, took off his spectacles, glanced aslant their surfaces, and put them back. It was a way he had of countering the unexpected
"Oh, yes," he said finally.
"How did that happen?"
"Her horse ran away with her and threw her from the buggy. Injured her head. Years ago. It was quite tragic. Young Innes was supposed to have been at fault. Everyone felt almost as sorry for him as they did for Gertrude. I know of few events that stirred the village more. Oh, yes, she's blind. What"—the doctor cleared his throat—"makes you ask?"
"Could her sight have returned, if perhaps only partially, in all this time?"
"I don't know. I didn't. . . wasn't capable of attending her. Stephen had specialists from Chicago. Big men. Three or four of them. But surely, if she's not blind, Mr. Duff, she herself would know it"
"Yes."
"But . . ." The doctor stared.
"Tell me, how did Gertrude react to her tragedy?"
"Oh, very nobly. Very nobly. She said she would be no burden. She learned to guide herself around the house. She has always been much admired for the way she took it"
"Ah, yes," said Duff. "She has been vain about that?"
The doctor took his glasses off again. "I suppose you are right," he said, and his voice lost its company manners. It was flat with plain speaking.
"A handicap," mused Duff, "can be a rather wonderful thing. It can dissipate all feelings of inferiority. Handicapped people have a beautiful excuse for failing. That's why so many of them are such great successes. It's not strange how often they go ahead and do the very thing one would say they couldn't do. Why do you suppose a one-armed man will study the piano? I've even heard of a lone-legged dancer. It's because they have no fear of failure. If they fan, everyone will understand. So they don't fail. That's the blessing of a handicap."
"But, of course, it doesn't always improve the character or, by removing fear, let loose the energies. Sometimes tiiere is no original energy. Rather often, I'm afraid, the handicapped person is no saint, either. It depends entirely upon the elements of the character he has to start with. People with sour souls grow more sour. Weak people get lisfless. Or lazy. Sometimes there is vanity. Gertrude seems to have grown vain. That's why she might not care to reveal it if she could now see a Uttle."
"That's a horrible idea," said the doctor distastefully.
But Fred said, "You're darned tooting right, Mr. Duff If Gertrude could see just a little, she'd never let on I'd bet on that."
"I'm terribly afraid," said Dr. Follett sadly, "that it's quite possible."
"When did Miss Isabel lose her arm?"
"Oh, that was not so long ago. When Stephen was killed. In 1925. He and his youngest girl had gone off to Marquette for some reason or other. Coming back they hit a boulder almost head on. He must have been half asleep or he felt suddenly faint. It was a dreadful smash The car turned over and he was crushed. So was Isabel's arm. She was terribly shocked, an invalid for months afterward."
''She used to go off alone with her father?"
"No, not especially. I don't know how she happened to be the only daughter along."
"Stephen was a drinking man?"
"No, not especially, either. But he had been very ill just before that trip. Seriously ill. We thought he wasn't as strong as he believed himself to be, and that's why it happened."
"His illness?"
"I didn't attend him. Intestinal, I think."
"He drove himself? They were alone?"
"Oh, yes, yes. In those days Stephen was an enthusiastic motorist."
"Miss Isabel has an artificial arm. Do you know anything about that?"
"Yes, I do know. I know the make. It's an old one. They do much better now."
"How much use is it to her?"
"None," said Dr. Follett. "It's for looks. Her arm is gone from the shoulder."
"You know that of your own knowledge?"
"Yes, I do."
Duff leaned back and looked dreamy. His long bones were folded in a low chair, and his laiees came high. "Tell me, what difference did the father's death make to the Whitlock household?"
"A tremendous difference. He was the life of it. He held Susan Innes Whitlock and the boy there. When he died, they left. After that the three sisters became more and more isolated. It was Stephen who brought people into that house."
"Any financial difference?"
"Why, not much." The doctor looked surprised. "They were well off. Isabel had every care. Specialists and nurses, just as Gertrude had. There was no difference."
"But the girls had control Was Stephen generous with them while he lived?"
"Oh, very. They had everything. He took them abroad. I know they had allowances."
"Was he strict about the allowances or were they unlimited, in effect?"
"I don't know. I remember the girls talked as if he were strict. We always thought it was a way of boasting."
"It may have been," said Duff. "Yes, Now tell me, when did Maud lose her hearing?"
"Gradually, I believe," the doctor said. "But that was long after I stopped going there, after my marriage."
"After her father's death?"
"I believe so. I'm sure it was gradual."
"No accident or sudden disease?"
"No. Just a gradual loss. I never attended her, of course."
"Then you can't tell me," said Duff, "whether she is totally deaf or simply more or less hard of hearing?"
"I can't," said the doctor.
"Has her voice changed?"
"No."
"It hasn't? I was under the impression that a deaf person's voice came to be a monotone. Because he can't hear himself."
"Her voice is pretty darned monotonous," Fred said. "She croaks."
"Yes, I know," said the doctor impatiently, "but Maud has a . . . er . . . defect. Trouble there, her vocal cords. Her voice has always been rather harsh and deep and monotonous, too."
"How very interesting," murmured Dxiff. "It's a real disability, is it?"
"Oh, yes. I used to try to help her."
"I see," said Duff. "I see."
"Does it run in the family?" asked Fred suddenly.
"Eh?"
"Because Isabel's voice is funny, too."