He was not to be deterred by this ridiculous, level-headed sawbones with his sententious babble about Nature, justice and clemency. It was true he had been unlucky enough to get pneumonia. Other men had done the same without the circumstance being contorted into an absurd theory that the whole forces of the universe were being directed against them.
Then there was the Rain-Girl. Why had he been so detestably unlucky as to fall ill on the night of meeting her? She was a unique creature, and those eyes! She had charm too, there was something Pagan about her, and her wonderful gurgling laugh; but she had said he was all wrong, and she certainly had nothing in common with Aunt Caroline.
Each day his determination to see the girl grew stronger. She had cast a spell over him. She had fascinated him. She cared for the things that he cared for. He must see her again. He would see her again—but how? At this juncture he generally lay back in his chair, or bed, and gave up the problem until he were stronger and better able to grapple with it.
Once there had come over him an unreasoning anger at her heartlessness. Knowing that a fellow-guest at the hotel was ill, even if only with a chill, a strictly humanitarian woman would have been touched by pity; but were women humanitarian? Had she heard he was ill? In a novel she would have stayed, nursed him back to health, and he would have married her.
