“We'll leave out Joe Drummond and myself—for, of course, I am very young. Who is in love with you besides Le Moyne? Any of the internes at the hospital?”
“Me! Le Moyne is not in love with me.”
There was such sincerity in her voice that Wilson was relieved.
K., older than himself and more grave, had always had an odd attraction for women. He had been frankly bored by them, but the fact had remained. And Max more than suspected that now, at last, he had been caught.
“Don't you really mean that you are in love with Le Moyne?”
“Please don't be absurd. I am not in love with anybody; I haven't time to be in love. I have my profession now.”
“Bah! A woman's real profession is love.”
Sidney differed from this hotly. So warm did the argument become that they passed without seeing a middle-aged gentleman, short and rather heavy set, struggling through a snowdrift on foot, and carrying in his hand a dilapidated leather bag.
Dr. Ed hailed them. But the cutter slipped by and left him knee-deep, looking ruefully after them.
“The young scamp!” he said. “So that's where Peggy is!”