Sometimes I think she’s tired of us. “It—it—must come,” she faltered. Her mind turned to her own future, the endless trickle of years. From the threshold she looked her accuser steadily and coldly in the face. He was beautiful and perfect, his blue eyes smiling at her. Nothing more forlorn could be conceived. You could walk the city streets and with every blink you could take in a new sight of beauty so great that your heart would weep for it. There was a short, red-faced, resolute youth who inherited an authoritative attitude upon bacteriology from his father; a Japanese student of unassuming manners who drew beautifully and had an imperfect knowledge of English; and a dark, unwashed Scotchman with complicated spectacles, who would come every morning as a sort of volunteer supplementary demonstrator, look very closely at her work and her, tell her that her dissections were “fairish,” or “very fairish indeed,” or “high above the normal female standard,” hover as if for some outbreak of passionate gratitude and with admiring retrospects that made the facetted spectacles gleam like diamonds, return to his own place. "Your sympathy is being wasted.
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