ly seen," he replied, "that to keep any hold at all on
her, you must make up your mind as I have done that, strength or no
strength, this job of hers is going to be a life career. When a woman who
has held a job without a break for eleven years can feel such a flame of
enthusiasm, you can be pretty sure, I think, it is the deepest part of her.
At least I feel that way," he said. "And I believe the only way to keep
near her--for the present, anyhow--is to help her in her work."

When Baird had gone, Roger found himself angry.

"I'm not in the habit, young man," he thought, "of throwing my daughter at
gentlemen's heads. If you feel as calm and contented as that you can go to
the devil! Far be it from me to lift a hand! In fact, as I come to think of
it, you would probably make her a mighty poor husband!" He worked himself
into quite a rage. But an hour later, when he had subsided, "Hold on," he
thought. "Am I right about this? Is the man as contented as he talks? No,
sir, not for a minute he isn't! But what can he do? If he tried making love
to Deborah he'd simply be killing his chances. Not the slightest doubt in
the world. She can't think of anything but her career. Yes, sir, when all's
said and done, to marry a modern woman is no child's play, it means thought
and care. And A. Baird has made up his mind to it. He has made up his mind
to marry her by playing a long waiting game. He's just slowly and quietly
nosing his way into her school, because it's her life. And a mighty shrewd
way of going about it. You don't need any help from me, my friend; all you
need is to be let alone."

In talks at home with Deborah, and in what he himself observed at school,
Roger began to get inklings of "A. Baird's long waiting game." He found
that several months before Allan had offered to start a free clinic for
mothers and children in connection with the school, and that he alone had
put it through, with only the most reluctant aid and gratitude from
Deborah--as though she dreaded something. Baird took countless hours from
his busy uptown practice; he hurt himself more than once, in fact, by
neglecting rich patients to do this work. Where a sick or pregnant mother
was too poor to carry out his advice, he followed her into her tenement
home, sent one of his nurses to visit her, and even gave money when it was
needed to ease the strain of her poverty until she should be well and
strong. Soon scores of the mothers of Deborah's children wer