"I suppose I'm a poor sort of soil for that kind of culture," she replied, rather wistfully.
"There is no finer soil in the world," I protested, doggedly.
Every man in the world and at least half the women would have agreed with me. The grace of her charming figure, her smiles and that one little dimple, the waving abundance of her silken hair, the rich inflections of her voice, each and all contradicted that foolish supposition of hers.
"Well, I thought this was an invitation to dinner," remarked Dora, sweetly, with all the brutal talent of her sex for changing the drift of conversation. "Of course they fed us well at the hospital, when we had time to eat, but…."
"Is that your last word?" I asked, trying to subdue the eagerness of my voice.
"If you don't really care to go…."
I rose and sought my hat and overcoat, while Dora wandered about my unpretentious office.
"Your landlady could take lessons from Paddy's pig in cleanliness," she declared, running a finger over my bookcase and contemplating it with horror. "I wonder that you, a surgeon, should be an accomplice to such a mess."
"It's pretty bad," I admitted, "but the poor thing has weak eyes, and she has seen better days."
"She deserves the bad ones, then," Dora exclaimed.