‘Dr Morrison, thank you for calling.’
‘Always a pleasure, Mrs Ragsdale.’
Overnight, the weather, as capricious as love, had turned springlike, almost sultry. A film of sweat sheened Mrs Ragsdale’s upper lip as they stumbled through an exchange of pleasantries. Under his jacket, Morrison felt damp circles spread from under his arms. He held his hat in his hand.
‘Dr Morrison,’ she ventured at last, her eyes apologetic. ‘As you know, Senator and Mrs Perkins have entrusted the guardianship of their daughter to me whilst she is in China.’
He nodded. His throat and stomach were a sheepshank, knotted top and bottom.
‘I feel I must speak to you about a rather sensitive matter. I believe you know what I’m referring to.’ Mrs Ragsdale attempted a smile. It died on her lips. She tried to resuscitate it without great success.
‘Yes.’ He felt his cheeks colour. ‘I believe I do.’ Anguish gripping my vitals.
‘Dr Morrison, you know how much I respect you.’
Morrison held his breath.
‘Back home, as you might imagine, Senator and Mrs Perkins are pillars of society.’
‘Of course,’ was Morrison’s careful reply.
Mrs Ragsdale, eyes moistening, frowned. ‘This is so terribly awkward.’
Morrison sat as still as a corpse.
‘Miss Perkins is the apple of her father’s eye. But she has always been a bit…man-crazy. She is, and I shall be frank with you, Dr Morrison, only kept from male company with the greatest of difficulty.’
Morrison nodded. ‘I understand,’ he said, though in truth he was struggling.
‘I shall come to the point. Mae—Miss Perkins—has told me that you’ve been pressing your suit. That you have asked her to marry you. That you have been steadfast and persistent.’
Morrison blinked.
‘I know your intentions are honourable, Dr Morrison.’
‘They are.’ They were. They are. ‘And what,’ he added, maintaining as neutral a tone as possible, ‘does Miss Perkins say of her own intentions?’