The Wheels of Time
ILLUSTRATED BY R. G. VOSBURGH
New York
Thomas Y. Crowell & Co.
Publishers
Copyright, 1908, 1910,
By THOMAS Y. CROWELL & CO.
To one woman who said"I go not," but afterwards repented and went
Illustrations
| "Flower," he said, "my lovely fragrant Flower!" | Cover |
| "Good old Jane," she said. "I do enjoy talking to you" | p. 38 |
| "You are not much use at answering questions,darling, are you?" | p. 72 |
| "Oh, Flower! You cared like this?" | p. 92 |
The Wheels of Time
The doctor stood, with hishand on the doorknob, andgave a final look back into hiswife's boudoir.
There was nothing in that roomsuggestive of town or of town life andwork—delicate green and white, amossy carpet, masses of spring flowers;cool, soft, noiseless, fragrant.
Standing in the doorway the doctorcould hear the agitated clang of thestreet-door bell, Stoddart crossing thehall; the opening and closing of thedoor, and Stoddart's subdued andsympathetic voice saying: "Step thisway, please." A heavy, depressedfoot or an anxious, hurried one, accordingto the mental condition of itsowner, obeyed; and the shutting of thelibrary door meant another patientadded to the number of those whowere already listlessly turning overthe pages of bound volumes of Punchor scrutinizing with unseeing eyes theLandseer engraving over the mantelpiece.
In former days the waiting-roomused to be the doctor's dining-room,but before he married his pretty wifeshe put her foot down firmly on thisquestion. He had been explainingthe Wimpole Street house and its arrangementsas they stood together inher sunny rose-garden.
"But, Deryck," she had exclaimedin dismay, waving her hands at him,full of a great mass of freshly gatheredroses, "I could not possibly sitdown and dine with you in a roomwhere your horrible patients have satwaiting for hours, leaving behindthem the germs of all their nasty, infectiousdiseases!"
The doctor caught the little hands,roses and all, and held them againsthis breast, looking down into her facewith laughing eyes.
"Flower," he said, "my lovely, fragrantFlower! Am I doing a foolishthing in attempting to transplant youinto the soil of busy London life?Should I not do better if I left you inyour rose-garden? Ah, well, it is toolate to ask that now; I can't leaveWimpole Street, and"—his voice, alwaysdeep, suddenly thrilled to adeeper depth; a tenderness of strongpassion quivered in it—"I can't livewithout you." He let go her handsand framed her upturned face in hisstrong, brown fingers.
"What have you done to me,Flower? I was always self-containedand self-sufficing, and now I find Ican't live without you, Flower—myFlower."
His eyes glowed down into