Arrowsmith. Sinclair Lewis

right,” he said.

      It did not occur to him that their abstention from love began tonight; it did not come to him till, holding out his hands to Leora, smiling with virtue at having determined to be prudent, he heard Mr. Tozer cackling, “Ory, you go on up to bed now—in your own room!”

      That was his bridal night; tossing in his bed, ten yards from her.

      Once he heard a door open, and thrilled to her coming. He waited, taut. She did not come. He peeped out, determined to find her room. His deep feeling about his brother-in-law suddenly increased. Bert was parading the hall, on guard. Had Bert been more formidable, Martin might have killed him, but he could not face that buck-toothed and nickering righteousness. He lay and resolved to curse them all in the morning and go off with Leora, but with the coming of the three-o’clock depression he perceived that with him she would probably starve, that he was disgraced, that it was not at all certain he would not become a drunkard.

      “Poor kid, I’m not going to spoil her life. God, I do love her! I’m going back, and the way I’m going to work—Can I stand this?”

      That was his bridal night and the barren dawn.

      Three days later he was walking into the office of Dr. Silva, dean of the Winnemac Medical School.

      Chapter X

      I

      Dean Silva’s secretary looked up delightedly, she hearkened with anticipation. But Martin said meekly, “Please, could I see the dean?” and meekly he waited, in the row of oak chairs beneath the Dawson Hunziker pharmaceutical calendar.

      When he had gone solemnly through the ground-glass door to the dean’s office, he found Dr. Silva glowering. Seated, the little man seemed large, so domed was his head, so full his rounding mustache.

      “Well, sir!”

      Martin pleaded, “I’d like to come back, if you’ll let me. Honest, I do apologize to you, and I’ll go to Dr. Gottlieb and apologize—though honest, I can’t lay down on Clif Clawson—”

      Dr. Silva bounced up from his chair, bristling. Martin braced himself. Wasn’t he welcome? Had he no home, anywhere? He could not fight. He had no more courage. He was so tired after the drab journey, after restraining himself from flaring out at the Tozers. He was so tired! He looked wistfully at the dean.

      The little man chuckled, “Never mind, boy. It’s all right! We’re glad you’re back. Bother the apologies! I just wanted you to do whatever’d buck you up. It’s good to have you back! I believed in you, and then I thought perhaps we’d lost you. Clumsy old man!”

      Martin was sobbing, too weak for restraint, too lonely and too weak, and Dr. Silva soothed, “Let’s just go over everything and find out where the trouble was. What can I do? Understand, Martin, the thing I want most in life is to help give the world as many good physicians, great healers, as I can. What started your nervousness? Where have you been?”

      When Martin came to Leora and his marriage, Silva purred, “I’m delighted! She sounds like a splendid girl. Well, we must try and get you into Zenith General for your internship, a year from now, and make you able to support her properly.”

      Martin remembered how often, how astringently, Gottlieb had sneered at “dese merry vedding or jail bells.” He went away Silva’s disciple; he went away to study furiously; and the brilliant insanity of Max Gottlieb’s genius vanished from his faith.