“There really is nothing worth while yet. I was left an orphan young, in the care of an uncle who was able to do no better for me than to get me a place in a drug-store. By doing the night-work it was possible to take the course at the medical college; and as I made a good record, this position was offered to me.”
“It—you could make it interesting if you tried.”
“I’m afraid I am not a realist, Miss Durant. I dream of a future that shall be famous by the misery and death I save the world from, but my past is absolutely eventless.”
As he ended, the carriage drew up at the house, and the doctor helped her out.
“You will take Dr. Armstrong back to the hospital, Murdock,” she ordered.
“Thank you, but I really prefer a walk before going to my social intimates, the bacilli,” answered the doctor, as he went up the steps with her. Then, after he had rung the bell, he held out his hand and said: “Miss Durant, I need scarcely say, after what I have just told you, that my social training has been slight—so slight that I was quite unaware that the old adage, ‘Even a cat may look at a king,’ was no longer a fact until I overheard what was said the other day. My last wish is to keep you from coming to the hospital, and in expressing my regret at having been the cause of embarrassment to you, I wish to add a pledge that henceforth, if you will resume your visits, you and Swot shall be free from my intrusion. Good-night,” he ended, as he started down the steps.
“But I never—really I have no right to exclude—nor do I wish—” protested the girl; and then, as the servant opened the front door, even this halting attempt at an explanation ceased. She echoed a “Good-night,” adding, “and thank you for all your kindness,” and very much startled and disturbed the footman, as she passed into the hallway, by audibly remarking, “Idiot!”
She went upstairs slowly, as if thinking, and once in her room, seated herself at her desk and commenced a note. Before she had written a page she tore the paper in two and began anew. Twice she repeated this proceeding; then rose in evident irritation, and, walking to her fire, stood looking down into the flame. “I’ll think out what I had better do when I’m not so tired,” she finally remarked, as she rang for her maid. But once in bed, her thoughts, or the previous strain, kept her long hours awake; and when at last she dropped into unconsciousness her slumber was made miserable by dreams mixing in utter confusion operating-room and dinner, guests and microbes—dreams in which she was alternately striving to explain something to Dr. Armstrong, who could not be brought to understand, or to conceal something he was determined to discover. Finally she found herself stretched on the dinner-table, the doctor, knife in hand, standing over her, with the avowed intention of opening her heart to learn some secret, and it was her helpless protests and struggles which brought consciousness to her—to discover that she had slept far into the morning.
With the one thought of a visit to the hospital during the permitted hours, she made a hasty toilet, followed by an equally speedy breakfast, and was actually on her way downstairs when she recalled her promise of a gift. A glance at her watch told her that there was not time to go to the shops, and hurrying back to her room, she glanced around for something among the knick-knacks scattered about. Finding nothing that she could conceive of as bringing pleasure to the waif, she took from a drawer of her desk a photograph of herself, and descended to the carriage.
She had reason to be thankful for her recollection, as, once her greetings, and questions to the nurse about the patient’s condition were made, Swot demanded,