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Preface vii
Step 3: Use the Data Type. With the specification in place, students can write
small applications or applets to show the data type in use. These applications are
based solely on the data type’s specification because we still have not tied down
the implementation.
the data types in One of the lasting effects of the course is the specification, design, and imple-
this book are mentation experience. The improved ability to reason about programs is also
cut-down important. But perhaps most important of all is the exposure to classes that are
versions of the easily used in many situations. The students no longer have to write everything
Java Class from scratch. We tell our students that someday they will be thinking about a
Libraries problem, and they will suddenly realize that a large chunk of the work can be
done with a bag, a stack, a queue, or some such. And this large chunk of work is
work that they won’t have to do. Instead, they will pull out the bag or stack or
queue that they wrote this semester—using it with no modifications. Or, more
likely, they will use the familiar data type from a library of standard data types,
such as the proposed Java Class Libraries. In fact, the behavior of some data
types in this text is a cut-down version of the JCL, so when students take the step
to the real JCL, they will be on familiar ground—from the standpoint of how to
use the class and also having a knowledge of the considerations that went into
building the class.
Java Objects. The Java Object type lies at the base of all the other Java
types—or at least almost all the other types. The eight primitive types are not
Java objects, and for many students, the CS1 work has been primarily with the
eight primitive types. Because of this, the first few data structures are collec-
tions of primitive values, such as a bag of integers or a sequence of double num-
bers.
Iterators. Iterators are an important part of the Java Class Libraries, allowing
a programmer to easily step through the elements in a collection class. The
Iteratable interface is introduced in Chapter 5. Throughout the rest of the
text, iterators are not directly used, although they provide a good opportunity for
programming projects, such as using a stack to implement an iterator for a
binary search tree (Chapter 9).
Chapter Dependencies
Chapter 1
Introduction
Chapters 2–3
Classes
Reference variables
Collection classes Chapter 8
Recursion
Chapter 2 can be skipped by students
with a good background in Java classes.
Section 11.1
Chapter 4
Binary search
Linked lists
Chapter 13
Extended classes
Sections 5.1–5.4 Sec. 11.2–11.3
Generic programming Hash tables
(Also requires
Chapter 5)
Sections 5.5–5.7 Chapter 6
The Java API Stacks
Chapter 12
Iterators Sorting
Java collections (Heapsort also
Java maps Chapter 7 Chapter 9
needs Section
Queues Trees
10.1)
including time for exams and extra time for linked lists and trees. Remaining
weeks can be spent on a tree project from Chapter 10 or on binary search (Sec-
tion 11.1) and sorting (Chapter 12).
Heavy OOP Emphasis. If students will cover sorting and searching else-
where, then there is time for a heavier emphasis on object-oriented program-
ming. The first three chapters are covered in detail, and then derived classes
(Section 13.1) are introduced. At this point, students can do an interesting OOP
project, perhaps based on the ecosystem of Section 13.3. The basic data struc-
tures (Chapters 4 –7) are then covered, with the queue implemented as a derived
class (Section 13.4). Finish up with recursion (Chapter 8) and trees (Chapter 9),
placing special emphasis on recursive methods.
Accelerated Course. Assign the first three chapters as independent reading in
the first week and start with Chapter 4 (linked lists). This will leave two to three
extra weeks at the end of the term so that students can spend more time on
searching, sorting, and the advanced topics (shaded in the chapter dependencies
list).
I also have taught the course with further acceleration by spending no lecture
time on stacks and queues (but assigning those chapters as reading).
Early Recursion / Early Sorting. One to three weeks may be spent at the
start of class on recursive thinking. The first reading will then be Chapters 1 and
8, perhaps supplemented by additional recursive projects.
If the recursion is covered early, you may also proceed to cover binary search
(Section 11.1) and most of the sorting algorithms (Chapter 12) before introduc-
ing collection classes.
Acknowledgments
This book grew from joint work with Walter Savitch, who continues to be an
ever-present and enthusiastic supporter, colleague, and friend. My students from
the University of Colorado at Boulder serve to provide inspiration and joy at
every turn, particularly the spring seminars in Natural Computing and Ideas in
Computing. During the past few years, the book has also been extensively
reviewed by J.D. Baker, Philip Barry, Arthur Crummer, Herbert Dershem, Greg
Dobbins, Zoran Duric, Dan Grecu, Scott Grissom, Bob Holloway, Rod Howell,
Danny Krizanc, Ran Libeskind-Hadas, Meiliu Lu, Catherine Matthews, Robert
Moll, Robert Pastel, Don Slater, Ryan Stansifer, Deborah Trytten, and John
Wegis. I thank these colleagues for their excellent critique and their encourage-
ment.
At Addison-Wesley, I thank Tracy Dunkelberger, Michael Hirsch, Bob
Engelhardt, and Stephanie Sellinger, who have provided continual support and
knowledgeable advice.
I also thank my friends and colleagues who have given me daily
encouragement and friendship during the writing of this fourth edition: Andrzej
Ehrenfeucht, Marga Powell, Grzegorz Rozenberg, and Allison Thompson-
Brown, and always my family: Janet, Tim, Hannah, Michelle, and Paul.
Chapter List
APPENDIXES 775
INDEX 815
Contents xv
Contents
CHAPTER 1 THE PHASES OF SOFTWARE DEVELOPMENT 1
1.1 Specification, Design, Implementation 4
Design Technique: Decomposing the Problem 5
How to Write a Specification for a Java Method 6
Pitfall: Throw an Exception to Indicate a Failed Precondition 9
Temperature Conversion: Implementation 10
Programming Tip: Use Javadoc to Write Specifications 13
Programming Tip: Use Final Variables to Improve Clarity 13
Programming Tip: Make Exception Messages Informative 14
Programming Tip: Format Output with System.out.printf 14
Self-Test Exercises for Section 1.1 15
1.2 Running Time Analysis 16
The Stair-Counting Problem 16
Big-O Notation 21
Time Analysis of Java Methods 23
Worst-Case, Average-Case, and Best-Case Analyses 25
Self-Test Exercises for Section 1.2 26
1.3 Testing and Debugging 26
Choosing Test Data 27
Boundary Values 27
Fully Exercising Code 28
Pitfall: Avoid Impulsive Changes 29
Using a Debugger 29
Assert Statements 29
Turning Assert Statements On and Off 30
Programming Tip: Use a Separate Method for Complex Assertions 32
Pitfall: Avoid Using Assertions to Check Preconditions 34
Static Checking Tools 34
Self-Test Exercises for Section 1.3 34
Chapter Summary 35
Solutions to Self-Test Exercises 36
5.6 A Generic Bag Class That Implements the Iterable Interface (Optional Section) 296
Programming Tip: Enhanced For-Loops for the Iterable Interface 297
Implementing a Bag of Objects Using a Linked List and an Iterator 298
Programming Tip: External Iterators Versus Internal Iterators 298
Summary of the Four Bag Implementations 299
Self-Test Exercises for Section 5.6 299
5.7 The Java Collection Interface and Map Interface (Optional Section) 300
The Collection Interface 300
The Map Interface and the TreeMap Class 300
The TreeMap Class 302
The Word Counting Program 305
Self-Test Exercises for Section 5.7 306
Chapter Summary 309
Solutions to Self-Test Exercises 310
Programming Projects 312
“N
o good fairy had ever bestowed such a gift as this magic
lens,” said Dr. Strong, whisking Bettina up from her seat
by the window and setting her on his knee. “It was most
marvelously and delicately made, and furnished with a lightning-
quick intelligence of its own. Everything that went on around it, it
reported to its fortunate possessor as swiftly as thought flies through
that lively little brain of yours. It earned its owner’s livelihood for
him; it gave him three fourths of his enjoyments and amusements; it
laid before him the wonderful things done and being done all over
the world; it guided all his life. And all that it required was a little
reasonable care, and such consideration as a man would show to the
horse that worked for him.”
“At the beginning you said it wasn’t a fairytale,” accused Bettina,
with the gravity which five years considers befitting such an
occasion.
“Wait. Because the owner of the magic lens found that it obeyed
all his orders so readily and faithfully, he began to impose on it. He
made it work very hard when it was tired. He set tasks for it to
perform under very difficult conditions. At times when it should have
been resting, he compelled it to minister to his amusements. When
it complained, he made light of its trouble.”
“Could it speak?” inquired the little auditor.
“At least it had a way of making known its wants. In everything
which concerned itself it was keenly intelligent, and knew what was
good and bad for it, as well as what was good and bad for its
owner.”
“Couldn’t it stop working for him if he was so bad to it?”
“Only as an extreme measure. But presently, in this case, it
threatened to stop. So the owner took it to a cheap and poor repair-
shop, where the repairer put a little oil in it to make it go on
working. For a time it went on. Then, one morning, the owner woke
up and cried out with a terrible fear. For the magic light in the magic
lens was gone. So for that foolish man there was no work to do nor
play to enjoy. The world was blotted out for him. He could not know
what was going on about him, except by hearsay. No more was the
sky blue for him, or the trees green, or the flowers bright; and the
faces of his friends meant nothing. He had thrown away the most
beautiful and wonderful of all gifts. Because it is a gift bestowed on
nearly all of us, most of us forgot the wonder and the beauty of it.
So, Honorable Miss Twinkles, do you beware how you treat the
magic lens which is given to you.”
“To me?” cried the child; and then, with a little squeal of
comprehension: “Oh, I know! My eyes. That’s the magic lens. Isn’t
it?”
“What’s that about Bettykin’s eyes?” asked Mr. Clyde, who had
come in quietly, and had heard the finish of the allegory.
“I’ve been examining them,” explained Dr. Strong, “and the story
was reward of merit for her going through with it like a little soldier.”
“Examining her eyes? Any particular reason?” asked the father
anxiously.
“Very particular. Mrs. Clyde wishes to send her to kindergarten for
a year before she enters the public school. No child ought to begin
school without a thorough test of vision.”
“What did the test show in Bettykin’s case?”
“Nothing except the defects of heredity.”
“Heredity? My sight is pretty good; and Mrs. Clyde’s is still better.”
“You two are not the Cherub’s only ancestors, however,” smiled
the physician. “And you can hardly expect one or two generations to
recast as delicate a bit of mechanism as the eye, which has been
built up through millions of years of slow development. However,
despite the natural deficiencies, there’s no reason in Betty why she
shouldn’t start in at kindergarten next term, provided there isn’t any
in the kindergarten itself.”
Mr. Clyde studied the non-committal face of his “Chinese
physician,” as he was given to calling Dr. Strong since the latter had
undertaken to safeguard the health of his household on the Oriental
basis of being paid to keep the family well and sound. “Something is
wrong with the school,” he decided.
“Read what it says of itself in that first paragraph,” replied Dr.
Strong, handing him a rather pretentious little booklet.
In the prospectus of their “new and scientific kindergarten,” the
Misses Sarsfield warmly congratulated themselves and their
prospective pupils, primarily, upon the physical advantages of their
school building which included a large work-and-play room, “with
generous window space on all sides, and finished throughout in
pure, glazed white.” This description the head of the Clyde
household read over twice; then he stepped to the door to intercept
Mrs. Clyde’s mother who was passing by.
“Here, Grandma,” said he. “Our Chinese tyrant had diagnosed
something wrong with that first page. Do you discover any kink in
it?”
“Not I,” said Mrs. Sharpless, after reading it. “Nor in the place
itself. I called there yesterday. It is a beautiful room; everything as
shiny and clean as a pin.”
“Yesterday was cloudy,” observed the Health Master.
“It was. Yet there wasn’t a corner of the place that wasn’t flooded
with light,” declared Mrs. Sharpless.
“And on a clear day, with the sun pouring in from all sides and
being flashed back from those shiny, white walls, the unfortunate
inmates would be absolutely dazzled.”
“Do you mean to say that God’s pure sunlight can hurt any one?”
challenged Mrs. Sharpless, who was rather given to citing the Deity
as support for her own side of any question.
“Did you ever hear of snow-blindness?” countered the physician.
“I’ve seen it in the North,” said Mr. Clyde. “It’s not a pleasant thing
to see.”
“Glazed white walls would give a very fair imitation of snow-glare.
Too much light is as bad as too little. Those walls should be tinted.”
“Yet it says here,” said Mr. Clyde, referring to his circular, “that the
‘Misses Sarsfield will conduct their institution on the most improved
Froebelian principles.”
“Froebel was a great man and a wise one,” said Dr. Strong. “His
kindergarten system has revolutionized all teaching. But he lived
before the age of hygienic knowledge. I suppose that no other man
has wrought so much disaster to the human eye as he.”
“That’s a pretty broad statement, Strong,” objected Air. Clyde.
“Is it? Look at the evidence. North Germany is the place where
Froebel first developed his system. Seventy-five per cent of the
population are defective of vision. Even the American children of
North German immigrants show a distinct excess of eye defects.
You’ve seen the comic pictures representing Boston children as
wearing huge goggles?”
“Are you making an argument out of a funny-paper joke?” queried
Grandma Sharpless.
“Why not? It wouldn’t be a joke if it hadn’t some foundation in
fact. The kindergarten system got its start in America in Boston.
Boston has the worst eyesight of any American city; impaired vision
has even become hereditary there. To return to Germany: if you
want a shock, look up the records of suicides among school-children
there.”
“But surely that has no connection with the eyes.”
“Surely it has,” controverted Dr. Strong. “The eye is the most
nervous of all the organs; and nothing will break down the nervous
system in general more swiftly and surely than eye-strain. Even in
this country we are raising up a generation of neurasthenic
youngsters, largely from neglect of their eyes.”
“Still, we’ve got to educate our children,” said Mr. Clyde.
“And we’ve got to take the utmost precautions lest the education
cost more than it is worth, in acquired defects.”
“For my part,” announced Grandma Sharpless, “I believe in early
schooling and in children learning to be useful. At the Sarsfield
school there were little girls no older that Bettina, who were doing
needlework beautifully; fine needlework at that.”
“Fine needlework!” exploded Dr. Strong in a tone which Grandma
Sharpless afterwards described as “damnless swearing.”
“That’s enough! See here, Clyde. Betty goes to that kindergarten
only over my dead job.”
“Oh, well,” said Mr. Clyde, amazed at the quite unwonted
excitement which the other exhibited, “if you’re dealing in
ultimatums, I’ll drop out and leave the stricken field to Mrs. Clyde.
This kindergarten scheme is hers. Wait. I’ll bring her. I think she just
came in.”
“What am I to fight with you about, Dr. Strong?” asked Mrs. Clyde,
appearing at the door, a vision of trim prettiness in her furs and veil.
“Tom didn’t tell me the casus belli.”
“Nobody in this house,” said Dr. Strong appealing to her, “seems to
deem the human eye entitled to the slightest consideration. You’ve
never worn glasses; therefore you must have respected your own
eyesight enough to—”
He stopped abruptly and scowled into Mrs. Clyde’s smiling face.
“Well! what’s the matter?” she demanded. “You look as if you
were going to bite.”
“What are you looking cross-eyed for?” the Health Master shot at
her.
“I’m not! Oh, it’s this veil, I suppose.” She lifted the heavy polka-
dotted screen and tucked it over her hat. “There, that’s more
comfortable!”
“Is it!” said the physician with an emphasis of sardonicism. “You
surprise me by admitting that much. How long have you been
wearing that instrument of torture?”
“Oh, two hours. Perhaps three. But, Dr. Strong, it doesn’t hurt my
eyes at all.”
“Nor your head?”
“I have got a little headache,” she confessed. “To think that a
supposedly intelligent woman who has reached the age of—of—”
“Thirty-eight,” said she, laughing. “I’m not ashamed of it.”
“—Thirty-eight, without having to wear glasses, should deliberately
abuse her hard-working vision by distorting it! See here,” he
interrupted himself, “it’s quite evident that I haven’t been living up to
the terms of my employment. One of these evenings we’re going to
have in this household a short but sharp lecture and symposium on
eyes. I’ll give the lecture; and I suspect that this family will furnish
the symposium—of horrible examples. Where’s Julia? As she’s the
family Committee on School Conditions, I expect to get some
material from her, too. Meantime, Mrs. Clyde, no kindergarten for
Betty kin, if you please. Or, in any case, not that kindergarten.”
No further ocular demonstrations were made by Dr. Strong for
several days. Then, one evening, he came into the library where the
whole family was sitting. Grandma Sharpless, in the old-fashioned
rocker, next a stand from which an old-fashioned student-lamp
dispensed its benign rays, was holding up, with some degree of
effort, a rather heavy book to the line of her vision. Opposite her a
soft easychair contained Robin, other-wise Bobs, involuted like a
currant-worm after a dose of Paris green, and imaginatively
treading, with the feet of enchantment, virgin expanses of forest in
the wake of Mr. Stewart White.
Julia, alias “Junkum,” his twin, was struggling against the demon
of ill chance as embodied in a game of solitaire, far over in a dim
corner. Geography enchained the mind of eight-year-old Charles,
also his eyes, and apparently his nose, which was stuck far down
into the mapped page. Near him his father, with chin doubled down
over a stiff collar, was internally begging leave to differ with the
editorial opinions of his favorite paper; while Mrs. Clyde, under the
direct glare of a side-wall electric cluster, unshaded, was perusing a
glazed-paper magazine, which threw upon her face a strong
reflected light. Before the fire Bettykin was retailing to her most
intelligent doll the allegory of the Magic Lens.
Enter, upon this scene of domestic peace, the spirit of devastation
in the person of the Health Master.
“The horrible examples being now on exhibit,” he remarked from
the doorway, “our symposium on eyes will begin.”
“He says we’re a hor’ble example, Susan Nipper,” said Bettina
confidentially, to her doll.
“No, I apologize, Bettykin,” returned the doctor. “You’re the only
two sensible people in the room.”
Julia promptly rose, lifted the stand with her cards on it, carried it
to the center of the library, and planted it so that the central light fell
across it from a little behind her.
“One recruit to the side of common sense,” observed the
physician. “Next!”
“What’s wrong with me?” demanded Mr. Clyde, looking up.
“Newspaper print?”
“Newspaper print is an unavoidable evil, and by no means the
worst example of Gutenberg’s art. No; the trouble with you is that
your neck is so scrunched down into a tight collar as to shut off a
proper blood supply from your head. Don’t your eyes feel bungy?”
“A little. What am I going to do? I can’t sit around after dinner
with no collar on.”
“Sit up straight, then; stick your neck up out of your collar and
give it play. Emulate the attentive turtle! And you, Bobs, stop
imitating an anchovy. Uncurl! Uncurl!!”
With a sigh, Robin straightened himself out. “I was so
comfortable,” he complained.
“No, you weren’t. You were only absorbed. The veins on your
temples are fairly bulging. You might as well try to read standing on
your head. Get a straight-backed chair, and you’re all right. I’m glad
to see that you follow Grandma Sharpless’s good example in reading
by a student-lamp.”
“That’s my own lamp,” said Mrs. Sharpless. “Seventy years has at
least taught me how to read.”
“How, but not what,” answered the Health Master. “That’s a bad
book you’re reading.”
Grandma Sharpless achieved the proud athletic feat of bounding
from her chair without the perceptible movement of a muscle.
“Young man!” she exclaimed in a shaking voice, “do you know
what book that is?”
“I don’t care what book—”
“It is the Bible.”
“Is it? Well, Heaven inspired the writer, but not the printer. Text
such as that ought to be prohibited by law. Isn’t there a passage in
that Bible, ‘Having eyes, ye see not’?”
“Yes, there is,” snapped Mrs. Sharpless. “And my eyes have been
seeing and seeing straight for a good many more years than yours.”
“The more credit to them and the less to you, if you’ve maltreated
them with such sight-murdering print as that. Haven’t you another
Bible?”
Grandma Sharpless sat down again. “I have another,” she said,
“with large print; but it’s so heavy.”
“Prescription: one reading-stand. Now, Mrs. Clyde.”
The mother of the family looked up from her magazine with a
smile.
“You can’t say that I haven’t large print or a good light,” she said.
“The print is good, but the paper bad,” said the Health Master.
“Bad, that is, as you are holding it under a full, unqualified electric
light. In reading from glazed paper, which reflects like a mirror, you
should use a very modified light. In fact, I blame myself from not
having had all the electric globes frosted long since. Now, I’ve kept
the worst offender for the last.”
Charley detached his nose from his geography and looked up.
“That’s me, I suppose,” he remarked pessimistically and
ungrammatically. “I’m always coming in for something special. But I
can’t make anything out of these old maps without digging my face
down into ‘em.”
“That’s a true bill against the book concern which turns out such a
book, and the school board which permits its use. Charley, do you
know why Manny isn’t playing football this year?”
“Manny” was the oldest son of the family, then away at school.
“Mother wanted him not to, I suppose,” said the boy.
“No,” said Mrs. Clyde. “Dr. Strong persuaded me that the
development he would get out of the game would be worth the risk.”
“It was his eyes,” said the Health Master. “He is wearing glasses
this year and will probably wear them next. After that I hope he can
stop them. But his trouble is that he—or rather his teachers—abused
his eyes with just such outrageous demands as that geography of
yours. And while the eye responded then, it is demanding payment
now.”
“But a kid’s got to study, hasn’t he? Else he won’t keep up,” put in
Bobs, much interested.
“Not at the expense of the most important of his senses,” returned
the Health Master. “And never at night, at Charley’s age, or even
yours, Bobs.”
“Then he gets dropped from his classes,” objected Bobs.
“The more blame to his classes. Early learning is much too
expensive at the cost of eye-strain and consequent nerve-strain. If
we force a student in the early years to make too great demands on
his eyes, the chances are that he will develop some eye or nervous
trouble at sixteen or seventeen and lose far more time than he has
gained before, not reckoning the disastrous physical effects.”
“But if other children go ahead, ours must,” said Mrs. Clyde.
“Perhaps the others who go ahead now won’t keep ahead later.
There is a sentence in Wood and Woodruff’s textbook on the eye[1]
which every public-school teacher and every parent should learn by
heart. It runs like this: ‘That child will be happier and a better citizen
as well as a more successful man of affairs, who develops into a
fairly healthy, though imperfectly schooled animal at twenty, than if
he becomes a learned, neurasthenic asthenope at the same age.’”
[1] Commoner Diseases of the Eye, by Casey A. Wood and
Thomas A. Woodruff, pp. 418, 419.
“O
f all unfortunate times!” lamented Mrs. Clyde, her piquant
face twisted to an expression of comic despair. “Why
couldn’t he have given us a little more notice?”
Impatiently she tossed aside the telegram which announced that
her husband’s old friend, Oren Taylor, the artist, would arrive at
seven o’clock that evening.
“Don’t let it bother you, dear,” said Clyde. “I’ll take him to the club
for dinner.”
“You can’t. Have you forgotten that I’ve invited Louise Ennis for
her quarterly—well—visitation?”
Clyde whistled. “That’s rather a poser. What business have I got to
have a cousin like Louise, anyway!”
Upon this disloyal observation Dr. Strong walked into the library.
He was a very different Dr. Strong from the nerve-shaken wanderer
who had dropped from nowhere into the Clyde household a year
previous as its physician on the Chinese plan of being employed to
keep the family well. The painful lines of the face were smoothed
out. There was a deep light of content, the content of the man who
has found his place and filled it, in the level eyes; and about the
grave and controlled set of the mouth a sort of sensitive buoyancy of
expression. The flesh had hardened and the spirit softened in him.
“Did you hear that, Strong?” inquired Mr. Clyde, turning to him.
“I have trained ears,” answered Dr. Strong solemnly. “They’re
absolutely impervious to any speech not intended for them.”
“Open them to this: Louise Ennis is invited for dinner to-night. So
is my old friend Oren Taylor, who wires to say that he’s passing
through town.”
“Is that Taylor, the artist of ‘The First Parting’? I shall enjoy
meeting him.”
“Well, you won’t enjoy meeting Cousin Louise,” declared Mr. Clyde.
“We ask her about four times a year, out of family piety. You’ve been
lucky to escape her thus far.”
“Rather a painful old party, your cousin?” inquired the physician,
smilingly, of Clyde.
“Old? Twenty-two,” said Mrs. Clyde. “But she looks fifty and feels a
hundred.”
“Allowing for feminine exaggeration,” amended Clyde.
“But what’s so wrong with her?” demanded the physician.
“Nerves,” said Mrs. Clyde.
“Stomach,” said Mr. Clyde.
“Headaches,” said Mrs. Clyde.
“Toe-aches,” said Mr. Clyde.
“Too much money,” said Mrs. Clyde.
“Too much ego,” said Mr. Clyde.
“Dyspepsia.”
“Hypochondria.”
“Chronic inertia.”
“Set it to music,” suggested Dr. Strong, “and sing it as a duet of
disease, from ablepsy to zymosis, inclusively. I shall be immensely
interested to observe this prodigy of ills.”
“You’ll have plenty of opportunity,” said Mrs. Clyde rather
maliciously. “You’re to sit next to her at dinner to-night.”
“Then put Bettykin on the other side of me,” he returned. “With
that combination of elf, tyrant, and angel close at hand, I can turn
for relief from the grave to the cradle.”
“Indeed you cannot. Louise can’t endure children. She says they
get on her nerves. My children!”
“Now you have put the finishing touch to your character sketch,”
observed Dr. Strong. “A woman of child-bearing age who can’t
endure children—well, she is pretty far awry.”
“Yet I can remember Louise when she was a sweet, attractive
young girl,” sighed Mrs. Clyde. “That was before her mother died,
and left her to the care of a father too busy making money to do
anything for his only child but spend it on her.”
“You’re talking about Lou Ennis, I know,” said Grandma Sharpless,
who had entered in time to hear the closing words.
“Yes,” said. Dr. Strong. “What is our expert diagnostician’s opinion
of the case? You know I always defer to you, ma’am, on any
problem that’s under the surface of things.”
“None of your soft sawder, young man!” said the old lady, her
shrewd, gray eyes twinkling from her shrewd, pink face. “My opinion
of Louise Ennis? I’ll give it to you in two words. Just spoiled.”
“Taking my warning as I find it,” remarked the physician, rising, “I
shall now retire to put on some chain armor under my evening coat,
in case the Terrible Cousin attempts to stab me with an oyster-fork.”
The dinner was not, as Mrs. Clyde was forced to admit afterward,
by any means the dismal function which she had anticipated. Oren
Taylor, an easy, discursive, humorous talker, set the pace and was
ably seconded by Grandma Sharpless, whose knack of incisive and
pointed comment served to spur him to his best. Dr. Strong, who
said little, attempted to draw Miss Ennis into the current of talk, and
was rewarded with an occasional flash of rather acid wit, which
caused the artist to look across the table curiously at the girl. So far
as he could do so without rudeness, the physician studied his
neighbor.
He saw a tall, amply-built girl, with a slackened frame whose
muscles had forgotten how to play their part properly in holding the
structure firm. Her face was flaccid. Under the large but dull eyes,
there was a bloodless puffiness. Discontent sat enthroned at the
corners of the sensitive mouth. A faint, reddish eruption disfigured
her chin. Her two strong assets, beautifully even teeth and a wealth
of soft, fine hair, failed wholly to save her from being a flatly
repellent woman. Dr. Strong noted further that her hands were
incessantly uneasy, and that she ate little and without interest. Also
she seemed, in a sullen way, shy. Yet, despite all of these
drawbacks, there was a pathetic suggestion of inherent fineness
about her; of qualities become decadent through disuse; a charm
that should have been, thwarted and perverted by a slovenly habit
of life. Dr. Strong set her down as a woman at war with herself, and
therefore with her world.
After dinner Mr. and Mrs. Clyde slipped away to see the children.
The artist followed Dr. Strong, to whom he had taken a liking, as
most men did, into the small lounging-room, where he lighted a
cigar.
“Too bad about that Miss Ennis, isn’t it?” said Taylor abruptly.
His companion looked at him interrogatively.
“Such a mess,” he continued. “Such a ruin. Yet so much left that
isn’t ruined. That face would be worth a lot to me for the ‘Poet’s
Cycle of the Months’ that I’m painting now. What a November she’d
make; ‘November, the withered mourner of glories dead and gone.’
Only I suppose she’d resent being asked to sit.”
“Illusions are the last assets that a woman loses,” agreed Dr.
Strong.
“To think,” pursued the painter, “of what her Maker meant her to
be, and of how she has belied it! She’s essentially and fundamentally
a beautiful woman; that is why I want her for a model.”
‘“In the structure of her face, perhaps—”
“Yes; and all through. Look at the set of her shoulders, and the
lines of her when she walks. Nothing jerry-built about her! She’s got
the contours of a goddess and the finish of a mud-pie. It’s
maddening.”
“More maddening from the physician’s point of view than from the
artist’s. For the physician knows how needless it all is.”
“Is she your patient?”
“If she were I’d be ashamed to admit it. Give me military authority
and a year’s time and if I couldn’t fix her so that she’d be proud to
pose for your picture—Good Heavens!”
From behind the drapery of the passageway appeared Louise
Ennis. She took two steps toward the two men and threw out her
hands in an appeal which was almost grotesque.
“Is it true?” she cried, turning from one to the other. “Tell me, is it
really true?”
“My dear young lady,” groaned Taylor, “what can I say to palliate
my unpard—”
“Nevermind that! I don’t care. I don’t care anything about it. It’s
my own fault. I stopped and listened. I couldn’t help it. It means so
much to me. You can’t know. No man can understand. Is it true that
I—that my face—”
Oren Taylor was an artist in more than his art: he possessed the
rare sense of the fit thing to do and say.
“It is true,” he answered quietly, “that I have seen few faces more
justly and beautifully modeled than yours.”
“And you,” she said, whirling upon Dr. Strong. “Can you do what
you said? Can you make me good-looking?”
“Not I. But you yourself can.”
“Oh, how? What must I do? D—d—don’t think me a fool!” She was
half-sobbing now. “It may be silly to long so bitterly to be beautiful.
But I’d give anything short of life for it.”
“Not silly at all,” returned Dr. Strong emphatically. “On the
contrary, that desire is rooted in the profoundest depths of sex.”
“And is the best excuse for art as a profession,” said the painter,
smiling.
“Only tell me what to do,” she besought. “Gently,” said Dr. Strong.
“It can’t be done in a day. And it will be a costly process.”
“That doesn’t matter. If money is all—”
“It isn’t all. It’s only a drop in the bucket. It will cost you dear in
comfort, in indulgence, in ease, in enjoyment, in habit—”
“I’ll obey like a child.” Again her hands went tremulously out to
him; then she covered her face with them and burst into the tears of
nervous exhaustion.
“This is no place for me,” said the artist, and was about to escape
by the door, when Mrs. Clyde blocked his departure.
“Ah, you are in here,” she said gayly. “I’d been wondering—Why,
what’s the matter? What is it?”
“There has been an unfortunate blunder,” said Dr. Strong quickly.
“I said some foolish things which Miss Ennis overheard—”
“No,” interrupted the painter. “The fault was mine—” And in the
same breath Louise Ennis cried:—
“I didn’t overhear! I listened. I eavesdropped.”
“Are you quite mad, all of you?” demanded the hostess. “Won’t
somebody tell me what has happened?”
“It’s true,” said the girl wildly; “every word they said. I am a
mess.”
Mrs. Clyde’s arms went around the girl. Sex-loyalty raised its war
signal flaring in her cheeks.
“Who said that?” she demanded, in a tone of which Dr. Strong
observed afterward, “I never before heard a woman roar under her
breath.”
“Never mind who said it,” retorted the girl. “It’s true anyway. It
wasn’t meant to hurt me. It didn’t hurt me. He is going to cure me;
Dr. Strong is.”
“Cure you, Louise? Of what?”
“Of ugliness. Of hideousness. Of being a mess.”
“But, my dear,” said the older woman softly, “you mustn’t take it to
heart so, the idle word of some one who doesn’t know you at all.”
“You can’t understand,” retorted the other passionately. “You’ve
always been pretty!”
“A compliment straight from the heart,” murmured the painter.
The color came into Mrs. Clyde’s smooth cheek again. “What have
you promised her, Dr. Strong?” she asked.
“Nothing. I have simply followed Mr. Taylor’s lead. His is the artist
eye that can see beauty beneath disguises. He has told Miss Ennis
that she was meant to be a beautiful woman. I have told her that
she can be what she was meant to be if she wills, and wills hard
enough.”
“And you will take charge of her case?” asked Mrs. Clyde.
“That, of course, depends upon you and Mr. Clyde. If you will
include Miss Ennis in the family, my responsibilities will automatically
extend to her.”
“Most certainly,” said Mrs. Clyde. “And now, Mr. Taylor,” she added,
answering a look of appeal from that uncomfortable gentleman,
“come and see the sketches. I really believe they are Whistler’s.”
As they left, Dr. Strong looked down at Louise Ennis with a smile.
“At present I prescribe a little cold water for those eyes,” said he.
“And then some general conversation in the drawing-room. Come
here tomorrow at four.”
“No,” said she. “I want to begin at once.”
“So as to profit by the impetus of the first enthusiasm? Very well.
How did you come here this evening?”
“In my limousine.”
“Sell it.”
“Sell my new car? At this time of year?”
“Store it, then.”
“And go about on street-cars, I suppose?”
“Not at all. Walk.”
“But when it rains?”
“Run.”
Eagerness died out of Louise Ennis’s face. “Oh, I know,” she said
pettishly. “It’s that old, old exercise treatment. Well, I’ve tried that,
and if you think—”
She stopped in surprise, for Dr. Strong, walking over to the door,
held the portière aside.
“After you,” he said courteously.
“Is that all the advice you have for me?” she persisted.
“After you,” he repeated.
“Well, I’m sorry,” she said sulkily. “What is it you want me—”
“Pardon me,” he interrupted in uncompromising tones. “I am sure
they are waiting for us in the other room.”
“You are treating me like a spoiled child,” declared Miss Ennis,
stamping a period to the charge with her high French heel.
“Precisely.”
She marched out of the room, and, with the physician, joined the
rest of the company. For the remainder of the evening she spoke
little to any one and not at all to Dr. Strong. But when she came to
say good-night he was standing apart. He held out his hand, which
she could not well avoid seeing.
“When you get up to-morrow,” he said, “look in the mirror, [she
winced] and say, ‘I can be beautiful if I want to hard enough.’ Good-
bye.”
Luncheon at the Clydes’ next day was given up to a family
discussion of Miss Louise Ennis, precipitated by Mr. Clyde, who rallied
Dr. Strong on his newest departure.
“Turned beauty doctor, have you?” he taunted good-humoredly.
“Trainer, rather,” answered Dr. Strong.
“You might be in better business,” declared Mrs. Sharpless, with
her customary frankness. “Beauty is only skin-deep.”
“Grandma Sharpless’s quotations,” remarked Dr. Strong to the
saltcellar, “are almost as sure to be wrong as her observations are to
be right.”
“It was a wiser man than you or I who spoke that truth about
beauty.”
“Nonsense! Beauty only skin-deep, indeed! It’s liver-deep anyway.
Often it’s soul-deep. Do you think you’ve kept your good looks,
Grandma Sharpless, just by washing your skin?”
“Don’t you try to dodge the issue by flattery, young man,” said the
old lady, the more brusquely in that she could see her son-in-law
grinning boyishly at the mounting color in her face. “I’m as the Lord
made me.”
“And as you’ve kept yourself, by clean, sound living. Miss Ennis
isn’t as the Lord made her or meant her. She’s a mere parody of it.
Her basic trouble is an ailment much more prevalent among
intelligent people than they are willing to admit. In the books it is
listed under various kinds of hyphenated neurosis; but it’s real name
is fool-in-the-head.”
“Curable?” inquired Mr. Clyde solicitously.
“There’s no known specific except removing the seat of the
trouble with an axe,” announced Dr. Strong. “But cases sometimes
respond to less heroic treatment.”
“Not this case, I fear,” put in Mrs. Clyde. “Louise will coddle herself
into the idea that you have grossly insulted her. She won’t come
back.”
“Won’t she!” exclaimed Mrs. Sharpless. “Insult or no insult, she
would come to the bait that Dr. Strong has thrown her if she had to
crawl on her knees.”
Come she did, prompt to the hour. From out the blustery February
day she lopped into the physician’s pleasant study, slumped into a
chair, and held out to him a limp left hand, palm up and fingers
curled. Ordinarily the most punctilious of men, Dr. Strong did not
move from his stance before the fire. He looked at the hand.
“What’s that for?” he inquired.
“Aren’t you going to feel my pulse?”
“No.”
“Nor take my temperature?”
“No.”
“Nor look at my tongue?”
“Certainly not. I have a quite sufficient idea of what it looks like.”
The tone was almost brutal. Miss Ennis began to whimper.
“I’m a m—m—mess, I know,” she blubbered. “But you needn’t
keep telling me so.”
“A mess can be cleared up,” said he more kindly, “under orders.”
“I’ll do whatever you tell me, if only—”
“Stop! There will be no ‘if’ about it. You will do as you are bid, or
we will drop the case right here.”
“No, no! Don’t drop me. I will. I promise. Only, please tell me
what is the matter with me.”
Dr. Strong, smiling inwardly, recalled the diagnosis he had
announced to the Clydes, but did not repeat it.
“Nothing,” he said.
“But I know there must be. I have such strange symptoms. You
can’t imagine.”
Fumbling in her hand-bag she produced a very elegant little
notebook with a gold pencil attached. Dr. Strong looked at it with
fascinated but ominous eyes.
“I’ve jotted down some of the symptoms here,” she continued,
“just as they occurred. You see, here’s Thursday. That was a heart
attack—”
“Let me see that book.”
She handed it to him. He carefully took the gold pencil from its
socket and returned it to her.
“Now, is there anything in this but symptoms? Any addresses that
you want to keep?”
“Only one: the address of a freckle and blemish remover.”
“We’ll come to that later. Meantime—” He tossed the book into the
heart of the coal fire where it promptly curled up and perished.
“Why—why—why—” gasped the visitor,—“how dare you? What do
you mean? That is an ivory-bound, gold-mounted book. It’s
valuable.”
“I told you, I believe, that the treatment would be expensive. This
is only the beginning. Of all outrageous, unforgivable kinds of self-
coddling, the hypochondria that keeps its own autobiography is the
worst.”
Regrettable though it is to chronicle, Miss Ennis hereupon emitted
a semi-yelp of rage and beat the floor with her high French heels.
Instantly the doctor’s gaze shifted to her feet. Just how it happened
she could not remember, but her right foot, unprotected, presently
hit the floor with a painful thump, while the physician contemplated
the shoe which he had deftly removed therefrom.
“Two inches and a half at least, that heel,” he observed. “Talk
about the Chinese women torturing their feet!” He laid the offending
article upon the hearth, set his own soundly shod foot upon it, and
tweaked off two inches of heel with the fire-tongs. “Not so pretty,”
he remarked, “but at least you can walk, and not tittup in that. Give
me the other.”
Shocked and astounded into helplessness, she mechanically
obeyed. He performed his rough-and-ready repairs, and handed it
back to her.
“Speaking of walking,” he said calmly, “have you stored your
automobile yet?”
“No! I—I—I—”
“After to-morrow I don’t want you to set foot in it. Now, then,
we’re going to put you through a course of questioning. Ready?”
Miss Ennis settled back in her chair, with the anticipatory
expression of one to whom the recital of her own woe is a lingering
pleasure. “Perhaps if I told you,” she began, “just how I feel—”
“Never mind that. Do you drink?”
“No!” The answer came back on the rebound. “Humph!” Dr. Strong
leaned over her. She turned her head away.
“You asked me as if you meant I was a drunkard,” she
complained. “Once in a while, when I have some severe nervous
strain to undergo, I need a stimulant.”
“Oh. Cocktail?”
“Yes. A mild one.”
“A mild cocktail! That’s a paradox I’ve never encountered. How
often do you take these mild cocktails?”
“Oh, just occasionally.”
“Well, a meal is an occasion. Before meals?”
“Sometimes,” she admitted reluctantly.
“You didn’t have one here last night.”
“No.”
“And you ate almost nothing.”
“That is just it, you see. I need something: otherwise I have no
appetite.”
“In other words, you have formed a drink habit.”
“Oh, Dr. Strong!” It was half reproach, half insulted innocence,
that wail.
“After a cocktail—or two—or three,” he looked at her closely, but
she would not meet his eyes, “you eat pretty well?”
“Yes, I suppose so.”
“And then go to bed with a headache because you’ve stimulated
your appetite to more food than your run-down mechanism can
rightly handle.”
“I do have a good many headaches.”
“Do anything for them?”
“Yes. I take some harmless powders, sometimes.”
“Harmless, eh? A harmless headache powder is like a mild
cocktail. It doesn’t exist. So you’re adding drug habit to drink habit.
Fortunately, it isn’t hard to stop. It has begun to show on you
already, in that puffy grayness under the eyes. All the coal-tar
powders vitiate the blood as well as affect the heart. Sleep badly?”
“Very often.”
“Take anything for that?”
“You mean opiates? I’m not a fool, Doctor.”
“You mean you haven’t gone quite that far,” said the other grimly.
“You’ve started in on two habits; but not the worst. Well, that’s all.
Come back when you need to.”
Miss Ennis’s big, dull eyes opened wide. “Aren’t you going to give
me anything? Any medicine?”
“You don’t need it.”
“Or any advice?”
Dr. Strong permitted himself a little smile at the success of his
strategy. “Give it to yourself,” he suggested. “You showed, in flashes,
during the dinner talk last night, that you have both wit and sense,
when you choose to use them. Do it now.”
The girl squirmed uncomfortably. “I suppose you want me to give
up cocktails,” she murmured in a die-away voice.
“Absolutely.”
“And try to get along with no stimulants at all?”
“By no means. Fresh air and exercise ad lib.”
“And to stop the headache powders?”
“Right; go on.”
“And to stop thinking about my symptoms?”
“Good! I didn’t reckon on your inherent sense in vain.”
“And to walk where I have been riding?”
“Rain or shine.”
“What about diet?”
“All the plain food you want, at any time you really want it,
provided you eat slowly and chew thoroughly.”
“A la Fletcher?”
“Horace Fletcher is one of those fine fanatics whose extravagances
correct the average man’s stolid stupidities. I’ve seen his fad made
ridiculous, but never harmful. Try it out.”
“And you won’t tell me when to come back?”
“When you need to, I said. The moment the temptation to break
over the rules becomes too strong, come. And—eh—by the way—eh
—don’t worry about your mirror for a while.” Temporarily content
with this, the new patient went away with new hope. Wiping his
brow, the doctor strolled into the sitting-room where he found the
family awaiting him with obvious but repressed curiosity.
“It isn’t ethical, I suppose,” said Mr. Clyde, “to discuss a patient’s
case with outsiders?”
“You’re not outsiders. And she’s not my patient, in the ordinary
sense, since I’m giving my services free. Moreover, I need all the
help I can get.”
“What can I do?” asked Mrs. Clyde promptly. “Drop in at her
house from time to time, and cheer her up. I don’t want her to
depend upon me exclusively. She has depended altogether too much
on doctors in the past.”
Mr. Clyde chuckled. “Did she tell you that the European medical
faculty had chased her around to every spa on the Continent?
Neurasthenic dyspepsia, they called it.”
“Pretty name! Seventy per cent of all dyspeptics have the seat of
the imagination in the stomach. The difficulty is to divert it.”
“What’s your plan?”
“Oh, I’ve several, when the time comes. For the present I’ve got
to get her around into condition.”
“Spoiled mind, spoiled body,” remarked Mrs. Sharpless.
“Exactly. And I’m going to begin on the body, because that is the
easiest to set right. Look out for an ill-tempered cousin during the
next fortnight.”
His prophecy was amply confirmed by Mrs. Clyde, who made it her
business, amid multifarious activities, to drop in upon Miss Ennis
with patient frequency. On the tenth day of the “cure,” Mrs. Clyde
reported to the household physician:—
“If I go there again I shall probably slap her. She’s become simply
unbearable.”
“Good!” said Dr. Strong. “Fine! She has had the nerve to stick to
the rules. We needn’t overstrain her, though. I’ll have her come here
tomorrow.”
Accordingly, at six o’clock in the evening of the eleventh day, the
patient stamped into the office, wet, bedraggled, and angry.
“Now look!” she cried. “You made me store my motor-car. All the
street-cars were crowded. My umbrella turned inside out. I’m a
perfect drench. And I know I’ll catch my death of cold.” Whereupon
she laid a pathetic hand on her chest and coughed hollowly.
“Stick out your foot,” ordered Dr. Strong. And, as she obeyed:
“That’s well. Good, sensible storm shoes. I’ll risk your taking cold.
How do you feel? Better?”
“No. Worse!” she snapped.
“I suppose so,” he retorted with a chuckle.
“What is more,” she declared savagely, “I look worse!”
“So your mirror has been failing in its mission of flattery. Too bad.
Now take off your coat, sit right there by the fire, and in an hour
you’ll be dry as toast.”
“An hour? I can’t stay an hour!”
“Why not?”
“It’s six o’clock. I must go home. Besides,” she added
unguardedly, “I’m half starved.”
“Indeed! Had a cocktail to-day?”
“No. Certainly not.”
“Yet you have an appetite. A bad sign. Oh, a very bad sign—for
the cocktail market.”
“I’m so tired all the time. And I wake up in the morning with
hardly any strength to get out of bed—”
“Or the inclination? Which?” broke in the doctor.
“And my heart gives the queerest jumps and—”
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