Soon after midday the party broke up. Its members lunched early; visiting surgeons and physicians went their rounds at half-past one.
George strolled to the Dean's office.
A woebegone-looking youth in spectacles stood before the table; opposite sat the Dean. He looked up as George entered, and nodded: he was fond of George.
“Come along in,” he said; “I shan't be a minute.”
He turned to the sad youth. “Now your case, Mr. Carter,” he said, “is quite unique. In the whole records of the Medical School”—he waved at a shelf of fat volumes—“in the whole records of the Medical School we have nothing in the remotest degree resembling it. You have actually failed twice in—in—”
The Dean searched wildly among a litter of papers; baffled, threw out an emphasising hand, and repeated, “Twice! Other hospitals, Mr. Carter, may have room for slackers—we have not. We have a record and a reputation of which we are proud. You are in your second year. How old are you?”
A faint whisper said, “Nineteen.”
The Dean started. “Nineteen! Oh, dear me, dear me! this is worse than I thought—far worse. I am afraid, Mr. Carter, I shall have to write to your father.”
Guttural with emotion, Mr. Carter gasped: “I mean to work—indeed I do.”
Again the Dean frantically searched on his desk to discover the subject in which Mr. Carter had failed; again was unsuccessful. Deep thought ravelled his brow. His fingers drummed indecision on the table. It was a telling picture of one struggling between duty and kindliness—masterly as the result of long practice.