“Why, Doctor Urquhart, I must be a great deal cleverer than you.”
I had said this out of utter incredulity at the ludicrous idea; but, to my surprise, he took it seriously.
“You are right. I know I am a coarse, uneducated person; the life of an army-surgeon allows few opportunities of refinement, and, like many another boy, I threw away my chances when I had them.”
“At school?”
“College, rather.”
“Where did you go to college?”
“At St. Andrews.”
The interrogative mood being on me, I thought I would venture a question which had been often on my mind to ask—namely, what made him choose to be a doctor, which always seemed to me the most painful and arduous of professions.
He was so slow in answering, that I began to fear it was one of my too blunt queries, and apologized.
“I will tell you, if you desire it. My motive was not unlike one you once suggested—to save life instead of destroying it; also, because I wished to have my own life always in my hand. I cannot justly consider it mine. It is owed.”