“What lots of people you know,” she commented.
“How is a young doctor to get on unless he knows lots of people?” was his answer.
She said nothing for a minute or two, as they threaded their way through a tangle of vehicles stretching along the northernmost drive of the Park.
Then she asked: “Why is it that most of the women we have passed this afternoon sitting back in their carriages look bored to death?”
“I suppose it’s because they’ve got all they want,” the Doctor responded. “They have nothing left to live for; they have had everything. That’s what makes them so useful to our profession. They send for us because they are bored, and they want sympathy. I suppose everybody likes to talk about himself, especially when he’s out of sorts; now, you see, the family doctor can always be sent for, and it’s his business to listen to your account of your symptoms. That’s what he’s paid for.”
“I don’t think that’s a nice way of earning a living, do you?” returned the girl.
“Oh, I don’t know,” he answered. “Why not? It’s our duty to relieve suffering, and these women are just suffering for a chance to describe all their imaginary ailments.”
“Women?” she cried, indignantly. “Are all these old fools women?”
“There must be men sometimes, I suppose,” he replied; “but most of a family physician’s work is with the women, of course.”
Then it seemed to him that he saw before him the opportunity he had been awaiting. They were now climbing the hill at the northwestern corner of the Park. He slowed up so that she should not be tempted to overexert herself. He even went so far as to lag a little behind. When they began to go down again gently, he came alongside.