As a matter of fact, he was conscious of the fact that he had risen to be a gentleman. Now if a man is conscious of being a gentleman, he is bound to be a little less than a man. But if he is gnawed with anxiety lest he may not be a gentleman, he is only pitiable. There is a third case, however. If a man must loftily, by his manner, assert that he is now a gentleman, he shows himself a clown. For Alvina, poor Dr. Mitchell fell into this third category, of clowns. She tolerated him good-humouredly, as women so often tolerate ninnies and poseurs. She smiled to herself when she saw his large and important presence on the board. She smiled when she saw him at a sale, buying the grandest pieces of antique furniture. She smiled when he talked of going up to Scotland, for grouse shooting, or of snatching an hour on Sunday morning, for golf. And she talked him over, with quiet, delicate malice, with the matron. He was no favourite at the hospital.
Gradually Dr. Mitchell’s manner changed towards her. From his imperious condescension he took to a tone of uneasy equality. This did not suit him. Dr. Mitchell had no equals: he had only the vast stratum of inferiors, towards whom he exercised his quite profitable beneficence—it brought him in about two thousand a year: and then his superiors, people who had been born with money. It was the tradesmen and professionals who had started at the bottom and clambered to the motorcar footing, who distressed him. And therefore, whilst he treated Alvina on this uneasy tradesman footing, he felt himself in a false position.
She kept her attitude of quiet amusement, and little by little he sank. From being a lofty creature soaring over her head, he was now like a big fish poking its nose above water and making eyes at her. He treated her with rather presuming deference.
“You look tired this morning,” he barked at her one hot day.
“I think it’s thunder,” she said.
“Thunder! Work, you mean,” and he gave a slight smile. “I’m going to drive you back.”
“Oh no, thanks, don’t trouble! I’ve got to call on the way.”
“Where have you got to call?”
She told him.
“Very well. That takes you no more than five minutes. I’ll wait for you. Now take your cloak.”
She was surprised. Yet, like other women, she submitted.
As they drove he saw a man with a barrow of cucumbers. He stopped the car and leaned towards the man.
“Take that barrow-load of poison and bury it!” he shouted, in his strong voice. The busy street hesitated.
“What’s that, mister?” replied the mystified hawker.
Dr. Mitchell pointed to the green pile of cucumbers.
“Take that barrow-load of poison, and bury it,” he called, “before you do anybody any more harm with it.”
“What barrow-load of poison’s that?” asked the hawker, approaching. A crowd began to gather.
“What barrow-load of poison is that!” repeated the doctor. “Why your barrow-load of cucumbers.”
“Oh,” said the man, scrutinizing his cucumbers carefully. To be sure, some were a little yellow at the end. “How’s that? Cumbers is right enough: fresh from market this morning.”
“Fresh or not fresh,” said the doctor, mouthing his words distinctly, “you might as well put poison into your stomach, as those things. Cucumbers are the worst thing you can eat.”
“Oh!” said the man, stuttering. “That’s ’appen for them as doesn’t like them. I niver knowed a cumber do me no harm, an’ I eat ’em like a happle.” Whereupon the hawker took a “cumber” from his barrow, bit off the end, and chewed it till the sap squirted. “What’s wrong with that?” he said, holding up the bitten cucumber.
“I’m not talking about what’s wrong with that,” said the doctor. “My business is what’s wrong with the stomach it goes into. I’m a doctor. And I know that those things cause me half my work. They cause half the internal troubles people suffer from in summertime.”
“Oh ay! That’s no loss to you, is it? Me an’ you’s partners. More cumbers I sell, more graft for you, ’cordin’ to that. What’s wrong then. Cum‑bers! Fine fresh Cum‑berrrs! All fresh and juisty, all cheap and tasty—!” yelled the man.
“I am a doctor not only to cure illness, but to prevent it where I can. And cucumbers are poison to everybody.”
“Cum‑bers! Cum‑bers! Fresh cumbers!” yelled the man,
Dr. Mitchell started his car.
“When will they learn intelligence?” he said to Alvina, smiling and showing his white, even teeth.
“I don’t care, you know, myself,” she said. “I should always let people do what they wanted—”
“Even if you knew it would do them harm?” he queried, smiling with amiable condescension.
“Yes, why not! It’s their own affair. And they’ll do themselves harm one way or another.”
“And you wouldn’t try to prevent it?”
“You might as well try to stop the sea with your fingers.”
“You think so?” smiled the doctor. “I see, you are a pessimist. You are a pessimist with regard to human nature.”
“Am I?” smiled Alvina, thinking the rose would smell as sweet. It seemed to please the doctor to find that Alvina was a pessimist with regard to human nature. It seemed to give her an air of distinction. In his eyes, she seemed distinguished. He was in a fair way to dote on her.
She, of course, when he began to admire her, liked him much better, and even saw graceful, boyish attractions in him. There was really something childish about him. And this something childish, since it looked up to her as if she were the saving grace,
