Within herself Ellen understood the truth, which she had long ago
guessed. And with it came a fresh revelation. This was the reason why Amy
Mathewson could see, unmoved, the departure of Leaver, who had been so
closely thrown with her all that strange summer. With the deep loyalty of
a few rare natures, having once given her love, even though she received
nothing but friendship in return, she could care for no future which did
not include that friendship, dearer than the love of other men.
Ellen was still in the office, held there by a curious fascination of
interest in Amy's rapid, skillful preparations. It meant so much, this
operating at a country house, she explained to Ellen. It meant the
working out of all manner of difficult details, that the final conditions
might as closely as possible resemble those which were to be had, ready
to hand, in the operating-room of any hospital.
"It's a serious handicap to a surgeon's best work," she asserted, "when
he has to do it at a home. With all my precautions, I can never feel so
sure of giving him perfect cleanliness of surroundings."
"You can, if any one can," Ellen said, feeling for the first time as she
spoke, a curious little twinge of envy of the one whom her husband had
long called, with affectionate familiarity, his "right-hand man."
Often as she had seen the two drive away together it seemed to her to-day
that she looked at them with new eyes.
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