Evening of the Good Samaritan by Dorothy Salisbury Davis

father’s taken a shine to?”
    “Dr. Hogan? Yes, I met him.”
    “Were you favorably impressed?”
    “It was a casual meeting, but I thought he was very nice.”
    “Not arrogant?”
    “More aloof, I’d say.”
    “Whatever that means.”
    “Reserved.”
    “Ah-ha. That’s a woman’s distinction for a man who doesn’t make love to her on first acquaintance.”
    Martha did not say anything. This was typical of the things Dr. Winthrop said to her when they were alone. She was aware of being watched out of the corner of his eye.
    “A good looking fellow, would you say?”
    “I think so.”
    “I’d take your opinion for gospel any day.” He reached over and took her hand in his, lifting it from her lap to the seat between them. “What does your mother think of him?”
    “I don’t think she has met him.”
    “You don’t think?—Didn’t you even talk about him together? I thought that was what women talked about all the time—men.”
    Martha said nothing.
    Winthrop added, “She thinks his father’s a handsome old coot.”
    Martha doubted her mother had ever used those words in her life. She withdrew her hand on the pretense of having to blow her nose.
    Dr. Winthrop said, “I suppose every father doing a young man a good turn is looking to the future of his own daughter.”
    “I’m sure papa didn’t have that in mind,” Martha said.
    “The bigger fool he, then.”
    “My father is not a fool, Dr. Winthrop.”
    Winthrop moved again to better look at her. “You’re every bit as pretty as your mother.”
    “My mother is beautiful,” Martha said, intending it as contradiction. ‘Pretty’ seemed such an insipid word.
    Dr. Winthrop gave a brief, impatient shake of his jowl. “Your mother is beautiful and your father’s a wise man. You’re the luckiest girl in America.”
    “I think so.” Martha knew her retort to be rude, but she did not care.
    “Well, you’re right on half the count anyway.”
    Martha, contemplating his meaning and sensing the contempt in it, felt the sudden sting of anger. “I love my father very much, Dr. Winthrop.”
    “And don’t you think I do? How else could we put up with his vanities and inanities?”
    She looked directly into his eyes. “I don’t like you.”
    He gave a short laugh, a sound more of surprise than of mirth. “You’ve got courage, girl. I’ll say that for you. You’re your mother’s daughter.”
    “And my father’s.”
    “Oh, yes. Perversity’s child out of patience.”
    Anger quicker than any other emotion brought Martha to tears. She could not hold them back, but she muffled the sound of them for some time. At the first sniffle, Dr. Winthrop began to fuss, making all sorts of horrible noises meant to soothe her. “Dear girl, I was only teasing you. I always tease you, I’m afraid.”
    He put his hand on her thigh and gently patted it, quite truly forgetting himself. Martha plucked his hand up and flung it off like something alive. “If you touch me again …” she said, and caught her breath. She had no words with which to finish such a thought.
    Winthrop was upset with himself, but retreat or apology was impossible. “What will you do? Tell your father?”
    Martha said, “God damn you.”
    “Well, well,” he said, feeling relieved—almost justified—“I’ve heard a lot of things to recommend a convent education, but this is just about the best one of all. Yes, indeed.” He maneuvered himself forward in the seat and tapped on the window separating them from the chauffeur.
    Michaelson slid open the panel and said over his shoulder, “Yes, doctor?”
    “You will stop at the next North Shore station, Woodland Park, is it? Miss Fitzgerald wishes to take the train from there.” He sat back. “Yes, indeed, the best one of all.”
    Martha interlaced her fingers and closed her lips tightly lest she say the word. The closer they came to the station, the surer he was, she thought, that she would apologize.
    Finally he said,