"Why, that you have the most interesting profession in the world," I said.
"You don't mean the practice of medicine!—mere bread-and-butter."
"You don't love your profession!"
He smiled, and that time the smile was less ungenial. But I had not liked the tone of patronage about his work.
"They were all wasted on you, then—those splendid opportunities—the clinic in Hamburg, the years in Paris——"
"Oh, well"—he looked taken aback at my arraignment—"I mayn't be a thundering success, but I won't say I'm a waster."
"If you don't love and adore the finest profession in the world——! Yes, somebody else ought to have had your chances. Me, for instance."
"You! Oh, I dare say," his smile was humorous and humouring.
"You think I'm not in earnest. But I am." I went to the cupboard where Bettina and I each had a shelf, and brought out an old wooden workbox. I opened it with the little key on my chain. I took out papers and letters. "These are from the Women's Medical School in Hunter Street"—I laid the letters open before him—"answers to my inquiries about terms and conditions."
He glanced through one or two. "What put this into your head?" he said, astonished, and not the least pleased so far as one could see. "How did you know of the existence of these people?"