"Over the case?"
"Yes—that, and—the fact of your being what she hadn't supposed."
Dr. Ballard looked his question.
"She feels overawed, now she's aware what a great man are you. A bit sheepish, too, I fancy, because, if I remember right, she has twitted you, more than once, on being worn out waiting for patients."
"Well, what of it? Suppose she has? I can stand chaffing, I hope. And besides, she was right. I am worn out waiting for patients—waiting for patients to 'do the rest' after I've, so to speak, 'pressed the button.'"
"It's hard to believe you're the Daniel Ballard of Boston there's so much fuss about. Are you sure you're the man Elihu Webster meant? The man he called a celebrated specialist—the best skill in New England—and so forth and so forth?"
"I'm the only M.D. of my name in Boston," the young man said simply. "But I don't call myself a specialist, much less and-so-forth and-so-forth!"
"What do you call yourself, then?"
"A physician."
"I wish I had married your grandfather," Madam Crewe announced.