think to hear about these lie-hunters, like Professor Gottlieb and your old Voltaire, they couldn't be fooled. But maybe they were like you: always trying to get away from the tiresome truth, always hoping to settle down and be rich, always selling their souls to the devil and then going and double-crossing the poor devil. I think—I think—" She sat up in bed, holding her temples in the labor of articulation. "You're different from Professor Gottlieb. He never makes mistakes or wastes time on—"
"He wasted time at Hunziker's nostrum factory all right, and his title is 'Doctor,' not 'Professor,' if you must give him a—?
"If he went to Hunziker's he had some good reason. He's a genius; he couldn't be wrong. Or could he, even he? But anyway: you, Sandy, you have to stumble every so often; have to learn by making mistakes. I will say one thing: you learn from your crazy mistakes. But I get a little tired, sometimes, watching you rush up and put your neck in every noose—like being a blinking orator or yearning over your Orchid."
"Well by golly! After I come in here trying to make peace! It's a good thing you never make any mistakes! But one perfect person in a household is enough!"
He banged into bed. Silence. Soft sounds of "Mart—Sandy!" He ignored her, proud that he could be hard with her, and so fell asleep. At breakfast, when he was ashamed and eager, she was curt.
"I don't care to discuss it," she said.
In that wry mood they went on Saturday afternoon to the Pickerbaughs' snow picnic.
Dr. Pickerbaugh owned a small log cabin in a scanty grove of oaks among the hillocks north of Nautilus. A dozen of them drove out in a bob-sled filled with straw and blue woolly robes. The sleigh bells were exciting and the children leaped out to run beside the sled.
The school physician, a bachelor, was attentive to Leora; twice he tucked her in, and that, for Nautilus, was almost compromising. In jealousy Martin turned openly and completely to Orchid.
He grew interested in her not for the sake of disciplining
