"I am no man's mistress," answered the widow, crimsoning to her temples, but preserving her meek deportment, and humble tone. . 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. Dim souls flitted about her, not only speaking but it would seem even thinking in undertones. Instinctively she knew—some human recollection she had inherited—that she must not disturb him in this man-agony.
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