Doctor Crane had married a girl whom no other man ever thought of courting, a girl of whom people always said: “Oh, she’s so good !” chiefly because she was so homely.
They had three very plain daughters, and only Crane’s salary to live upon. Doctors and surgeons kept them poor enough.
St. Peter kissed his wife and went forth quite unconscious of what was going on in her mind. During the morning he telephoned Mrs. Crane, and arranged a meeting with her at five o’clock.
As the bell in the old house didn’t work now, he waited downstairs on the front porch, to receive his visitor and conduct her up to his study. It was raining drearily, and Mrs. Crane arrived in a rubber coat, and a knitted sport hat belonging to one of her daughters.
St. Peter took her wet umbrella and led her up the two flights of stairs.
“I’m not very well appointed to receive ladies, Mrs. Crane. This was the sewing-room, you know. There’s Augusta’s chair, which she insisted was comfortable.”
“Thank you.”
Mrs. Crane sat down, took off her gloves, and tucked wisps of damp hair up under her crocheted hat. Her bleak, plain face wore an expression of grievance.
“I’ve come without my husband’s knowledge, Doctor St. Peter, to ask you what you think can be done about our rights in the Outland patent. You know how my husband’s health has crippled us financially, and we never know when his trouble may come on worse again. Myself, I’ve never doubted that you would see it is only right to share with us.”
St. Peter looked at her in amazement.