“There, say no more, my dear old tutor,” cried Neil eagerly. “I have made up my mind to go, accepting all risks, and I hope I shall fulfill your wishes and prove worthy of your trust.”
“I have no fear of that, Elthorne, my dear boy. I know you too well. You will go, and your going will be the saving of thousands of lives in the future, while as to yourself, disease generally passes by the busy, active, and careful. You will go, then?”
“There is my hand.”
Sir Denton grasped the young surgeon’s hand warmly.
“God bless you, my boy, and your work!” he said, with his voice slightly husky. “But now tell me of yourself. This sudden change of front? The lady—she has refused you?”
Neil nodded and remained silent for a few moments. Then, turning, with a sad smile on his face:
“It was only a vain dream, my dear old friend. I loved, and forgot, in my blindness, that I was not a frank, handsome man of the world; that I was only a dull, thoughtful student, with few of the qualities that please women. She would have none of me, and perhaps she was wise.”
“No,” said Sir Denton sharply; “there was no wisdom in the woman who would refuse you. Some giddy, dress-loving, shallow creature, who—”
Neil held up his hand.
“No,” he said fervently. “The wisest, sweetest, and most refined lady that ever breathed.”