"Who I was," thought Arthur, his fall never far from the foreground of his mind. "You used to be very serious, and always perfect in your lessons," he continued aloud, "and—most superior."
Madelene laughed. "I was a silly little prig," said she. Then, not without a subtle hint of sarcasm, "But I suppose we all go through that period—some of us in childhood, others further along."
Arthur smiled, with embarrassment. So he had the reputation of being a prig.
Madelene was in the doorway. "Father will be free—presently," said she. "He has another patient with him. If you don't care to wait, perhaps I can look after the cut. Father said it was a trifle."
Arthur slipped his arm out of the sling.
"In here," said Madelene, opening the door of a small room to the left of her father's consultation room.
Arthur entered. "This is your office?" he asked, looking round curiously, admiringly. It certainly was an interesting room, as the habitat of an interesting personality is bound to be.
"Yes," she replied. "Sit here, please."
Arthur seated himself in the chair by the window and rested his arm on the table. He thought he had never seen fingers so long as hers, or so graceful. Evidently she had inherited from her father that sure, firm touch which is perhaps the highest talent of the surgeon. "It seems such an—an—such a hard profession for a woman," said he, to induce those fascinating lips of hers to move.
"It isn't soft," she replied. "But then father hasn't brought us up soft."