Every one laughed, for it was an open secret that Dr. John MacClure knew more about Karen Leith than any one else in the world, and indeed that he proposed shortly to learn even more. His sharply light blue eyes in their chunky setting rarely left Karen’s face.
“Why, Doctor,” cried a lady who wrote stony, inhibited novels about New England, “you haven’t a spark of poetry in you!”
Dr. MacClure retorted: “Neither have germs,” and even Karen smiled faintly.
Manning of the World, who had been trying to recall the year of Lafcadio Hearn’s death, finally said: “Don’t bite me, Miss Leith. But wouldn’t that make you about forty?”
Karen began to stir another bowl of tea calmly.
“Remarkable,” murmured Mr. Queen. “That’s when life begins, I’m told.”
Karen’s shy and wary glance fixed on Dr. MacClure’s chest. “That’s a coincidence. Life begins at fifty, or fifteen.” She drew a breath very lightly. “Life begins when happiness begins.”
The women looked at one another, knowing what Karen meant; for she had made her mark and won her man. One of them asked Dr. MacClure rather maliciously what he thought.
“I don’t practise obstetrics any more,” he said shortly.
“John,” said Karen.
“Well” He waved his thick arms. “I’m not interested in the beginning of life. I’m interested in its ending.”
And no one had to explain what he meant, for Dr. MacClure was the arch-enemy of death.
For a space they were still; as one who wrestled constantly with death Dr. MacClure gave forth a powerful effluvium that occasionally silenced people. There was something dusty and yet clean about him, as if even mortal dirt became sterilized on contact with him; and people thought of him a little uncomfortably in terms of carbolic acid and white robes, like the high priest of some esoteric cult. Legends had sprung up about him.
Money and fame meant nothing to him; perhaps, as a few envious souls in his profession commented bitterly, because he had plenty of both. Most human beings to him were insects crawling after microscopic values, creatures fit only for laboratory dissection; and when they annoyed him he slapped them down impatiently with his hairy, antiseptic paws.
He was an unkempt, absent man. No one could remember the time when he had not worn a certain ancient brown suit, unpressed, depilated, and edged with fuzz, which clung to his shoulders plaintively. He was a strong man, and a tired man, and while he did not look his age he nevertheless contrived to seem a hundred.
It was a curious paradox that this man, who made people feel like awed children, should himself be a child in everything but his work. He was angry, helpless, and socially timid; and quite unconscious of the effect he had on people.
Now he looked appealingly at Karen, as a child looks at its mother in an emergency, wondering why everyone had stopped talking.
“Where’s Eva, John?” asked Karen quickly. She had a sixth sense for his moments of confusion.
“Eva? I think I saw her—”
“Here I am,” said a tall girl from the step of the pavilion. But she did not come in.
“There she is,” said Dr. MacClure gratefully. “Having a nice time, honey? Have you—”
“Where have you been, dear?” asked Karen. “Do you know everyone? This is Mr. Queen — isn’t it? — Miss MacClure. And this—”
“We’ve all met, I think,” said Eva MacClure with a faint social smile.
“No, we haven’t,” said Mr. Queen truthfully, rising with alacrity.
“Daddy, your tie’s under your ear again,” said Miss MacClure, ignoring Mr. Queen and glancing coldly at the other men.
“Oh,” sighed Karen, “it’s impossible keeping him presentable!”
“I’m all right,” mumbled Dr. MacClure, backing into a corner.
“Do you write, too, Miss MacClure?” asked the poet hungrily.
“I don’t do anything,” said Miss MacClure in a sweet voice. “Oh, will you excuse me, Karen? I think I see someone...”
She went away, leaving a chastened poet behind her, and vanished among groups of noisy people being served outlandish edibles by a corps of Japanese servants recruited for the evening. But she did not speak to anyone and as she made her way to the little bridge at the end of the garden she was frowning very fiercely indeed.
“Your daughter is lovely, Doctor,” panted a Russian lady-writer whose bosom was swathed passionately in tulle. “Such a healthy-looking creature!”
“Ought to be,” said Dr. MacClure, fumbling with his tie. “Perfect specimen. Had proper care.”
“Glorious eyes,” said the poet unpoetically. “A little too distant for me, though.”
“Oh, Eva’s going through a stage,” smiled Karen. “Tea, somebody?”
“I think it’s wonderful how you’ve found time to raise a family, Doctor,” panted the Russian lady.
Dr. MacClure glared from the poet to the Russian lady; they both had poor teeth and, besides, he detested being discussed in public.
“John finds time for everyone but himself,” said Karen hastily. “He’s needed a rest for ages. More tea?”
“Mark of greatness,” said Karen’s publisher, beaming on everyone. “Why on earth didn’t you go to Stockholm last December, Doctor? Imagine a man snubbing the donors of the international medical award!”
“No time,” barked Dr. MacClure.
“He didn’t snub them,” said Karen. “John couldn’t snub anybody. He’s just a baby.”
“Is that why you’re marrying him, my dear?” asked the Russian lady, panting more than ever.
Karen smiled. “More tea, Mr. Queen?”
“It’s so romantic,” shrilled the New England novelist. ‘Two prize-winners, two geniuses, you might say, combining their heredity for the creation of—”
“More tea?” said Karen quietly.
Dr. MacClure stamped off, glowering at the ladies.
The truth was, life was beginning for the good doctor at fifty-three. He had never thought of himself in terms of age, but neither had he thought of himself in terms of youth; and to have youth pounce upon him from behind both amused and nettled him.
The medical award he could accept without loss of equilibrium; it meant no more than a thickening of the annoyances always besieging him — newspaper interviews, invitations to medical functions, the conferring of honorary degrees. He had shaken the whole business off indifferently. He had not even gone to Stockholm, although he had been notified of the award the previous autumn. A new research had absorbed his attention and May found him still in New York, prowling about his empire at the Cancer Foundation.
But falling in love with Karen Leith so astounded and upset him that for months he had gone about in a resentful silence, plainly arguing with himself; and he was still a little irritable about the whole subject. It was so damned unscientific — a woman he had known for over twenty years! He could remember Karen when she was a sullen sprig of seventeen, annoying her patient father with unanswerable questions about Shakespeare in the Leith house in Tokyo, with Fujiyama towering like ice cream to the southeast.
Dr. MacClure had been young then, in Japan on a wild-goose chase connected with his early cancer researches; but even in those days he had not thought of Karen except in disapproving terms. Her sister Esther, of course, had been different — he often thought of Esther as she was then, with her golden hair and dragging leg, like an earthbound goddess. But Karen — why, between 1918 and 1927 he hadn’t seen her at all! It was infantile. Naturally, for sentimental reasons he had become her physician when she left the East to settle in New York — old times, that sort of thing. Proved something. Bad business, sentiment. Being Karen’s physician should have drawn them apart... the professional relationship...