least twelve feet high, ringed with dentil molding. A chair rail divided the walls between the buff-painted bottom third and the deep green brushed silk wallpaper that covered the rest. Another immense crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling, again lit by electricity rather than gas or candle.
What must it be like, I wondered, to live in such luxury?
The guests had divided themselves into two groups, split according to profession. Drs. Mitchell and Agnew stood in a small knot near the door, chatting and sipping champagne with their wives. Mitchell was invariably the first person to be noticed in any gathering. Tall and gaunt, he wore an imposing full gray beard and had more than once been compared to Uncle Sam or President Lincoln. I’d once overheard a student exclaim that to sit in Weir Mitchell’s class was “like being taught neurology by Jehovah himself.” Agnew, short, bald, and jovial, with a full white mustache, was a perfect match for his short, jovial, white-haired wife.
The Mitchells and the Agnews apparently knew Miss Benedict well, and everyone spoke quite cordially. There was an ease to their manner, a nonchalance that I knew I must perfect if I was ever to fit into this society. I did not say a great deal, preferring to observe, but nor did I embarrass myself.
“Excuse me, please,” said Miss Benedict after a few minutes, “but I must introduce Dr. Carroll to our plutocrats.” She nudged me gently from the physicians and escorted me toward a group of six people across the room.
The three couples varied greatly in age. Abigail Benedict led me first to a wizened, sallow man named Elias Schoonmaker, who, from the tone of his skin, appeared to be suffering from a liver disorder. His head bent slightly forward when he spoke, eyes rolled upward, as if he were a stern clergyman passing judgment on a sinner. His wife was a squirrel-like woman whose dress and demeanor seemed more suited to the Puritan era.
The second couple was much younger, in their early thirties. The man was tall, full but not fat, clean-shaven, with dark hair parted on the side. He wore spectacles, but they did not obscure a pair of powerful Benedict blue eyes. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Dr. Carroll.” He thrust his hand forward. “I’m Albert Benedict.” His smile held charm and distance. “I’m a great admirer of your profession. How thrilling it must be to save a life.”
I acknowledged the compliment, but there was a serrated edge to Albert Benedict’s casual manner that was unsettling, as I assumed it was meant to be.
“The excitement of science,” he continued, too enthusiastically, “so much more vital than the idle pursuits.”
Miss Benedict’s jaw tightened. “My brother is a banker, Dr. Carroll, which is hardly an idle pursuit,” she responded immediately. “Of course, it becomes a bit more idle when one works for one’s father.”
“It is true,” her brother agreed amiably. “My father’s dynastic aspirations have eased my path to glory, Dr. Carroll. Everyone, I suppose, tries to hitch their wagon to some star or other. Success comes simply in choosing the right star.”
I felt a momentary flush as the Professor flashed in my mind. Miss Benedict opened her mouth to respond, but before she could get the words out, her older brother, eversmiling, shot her a brief but frozen glance and broke off the exchange. Albert then introduced me to his small and fragile-looking wife, Margaret, whose elaborate pearl choker served only to make her appear more birdlike. Margaret Benedict was extremely polite, with the perfect diction and practiced gestures that bespoke a finishing school education. They stood together but, instead of appearing as a unit, she and her husband seemed to occupy separate space.
The third man was the most striking of the three. He was no more than fifty, but with a bearing so severe that the upper half of his face appeared not to move when he spoke. Miss Benedict introduced him as
What must it be like, I wondered, to live in such luxury?
The guests had divided themselves into two groups, split according to profession. Drs. Mitchell and Agnew stood in a small knot near the door, chatting and sipping champagne with their wives. Mitchell was invariably the first person to be noticed in any gathering. Tall and gaunt, he wore an imposing full gray beard and had more than once been compared to Uncle Sam or President Lincoln. I’d once overheard a student exclaim that to sit in Weir Mitchell’s class was “like being taught neurology by Jehovah himself.” Agnew, short, bald, and jovial, with a full white mustache, was a perfect match for his short, jovial, white-haired wife.
The Mitchells and the Agnews apparently knew Miss Benedict well, and everyone spoke quite cordially. There was an ease to their manner, a nonchalance that I knew I must perfect if I was ever to fit into this society. I did not say a great deal, preferring to observe, but nor did I embarrass myself.
“Excuse me, please,” said Miss Benedict after a few minutes, “but I must introduce Dr. Carroll to our plutocrats.” She nudged me gently from the physicians and escorted me toward a group of six people across the room.
The three couples varied greatly in age. Abigail Benedict led me first to a wizened, sallow man named Elias Schoonmaker, who, from the tone of his skin, appeared to be suffering from a liver disorder. His head bent slightly forward when he spoke, eyes rolled upward, as if he were a stern clergyman passing judgment on a sinner. His wife was a squirrel-like woman whose dress and demeanor seemed more suited to the Puritan era.
The second couple was much younger, in their early thirties. The man was tall, full but not fat, clean-shaven, with dark hair parted on the side. He wore spectacles, but they did not obscure a pair of powerful Benedict blue eyes. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Dr. Carroll.” He thrust his hand forward. “I’m Albert Benedict.” His smile held charm and distance. “I’m a great admirer of your profession. How thrilling it must be to save a life.”
I acknowledged the compliment, but there was a serrated edge to Albert Benedict’s casual manner that was unsettling, as I assumed it was meant to be.
“The excitement of science,” he continued, too enthusiastically, “so much more vital than the idle pursuits.”
Miss Benedict’s jaw tightened. “My brother is a banker, Dr. Carroll, which is hardly an idle pursuit,” she responded immediately. “Of course, it becomes a bit more idle when one works for one’s father.”
“It is true,” her brother agreed amiably. “My father’s dynastic aspirations have eased my path to glory, Dr. Carroll. Everyone, I suppose, tries to hitch their wagon to some star or other. Success comes simply in choosing the right star.”
I felt a momentary flush as the Professor flashed in my mind. Miss Benedict opened her mouth to respond, but before she could get the words out, her older brother, eversmiling, shot her a brief but frozen glance and broke off the exchange. Albert then introduced me to his small and fragile-looking wife, Margaret, whose elaborate pearl choker served only to make her appear more birdlike. Margaret Benedict was extremely polite, with the perfect diction and practiced gestures that bespoke a finishing school education. They stood together but, instead of appearing as a unit, she and her husband seemed to occupy separate space.
The third man was the most striking of the three. He was no more than fifty, but with a bearing so severe that the upper half of his face appeared not to move when he spoke. Miss Benedict introduced him as
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