This
daughter, too, was a part of himself. His deep instinctive craving to keep
to himself and his family was living on in Edith, was already dominating
her home. What a queer mysterious business it was, this tie between a man
and his child.
He was thinking of this when Baird arrived. Allan Baird was not only the
doctor who had brought Edith's children into the world, he was besides an
intimate friend, he had been Bruce's room-mate at college. As he came
strolling into the room with his easy greeting of "Well, folks--" his low
gruff voice, his muscular frame, over six feet two, and the kindly calm
assurance in his lean strong visage, gave to Bruce and Roger the feeling of
safety they needed. For this kind of work was his life. He had specialized
on women, and after over fifteen years of toilsome uphill labor he had
become at thirty-seven one of the big gynecologists. He was taking his
success with the quiet relish of a man who had had to work for it hard. And
yet he had not been spoiled by success. He worked even harder than
before--so hard, in fact, that Deborah, with whom through Bruce and Edith
he had long ago struck up an easy bantering friendship, had sturdily set
herself the task of prying open his eyes a bit. She had taken him to her
school at night and to queer little foreign cafes. And Baird, with a humor
of his own, had retaliated by dragging her to the Astor Roof and to musical
plays.
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