"I hope you will talk with Dr. Lindsay. He is a very able man. And," she hesitated a moment and then looked frankly at him, "he can do so much for a young doctor who has his way to make."
"Don't you think that might make it harder for me to talk to him?" Sommers asked, irritated by her lack of tact.
The girl's face flushed, and she pressed her lips together as if to push back a sharp reply.
"That is unfair. We are going now—but sometime we must talk it out."
The men stretched themselves and rearranged their chairs in little groups. Parker Hitchcock, Carson, and young Porter—were talking horses; they made no effort to include the young doctor in their corner. He was beginning to feel uncomfortably stranded in the middle of the long room, when Dr. Lindsay crossed to his side. The talk at dinner had not put the distinguished specialist in a sympathetic light, but the younger man felt grateful for this act of cordiality. They chatted about St. Isidore's, about the medical schools in Chicago, and the medical societies. At last Dr. Lindsay suggested casually, as he refilled his liqueur-glass:
"You have made some plans?"
"No, not serious ones. I have thought of taking a vacation. Then there is another hospital berth I could have. Head of a small hospital in a mining town. But I don't like to leave Chicago, on the whole."
"You are right," the older physician remarked slowly. "Such a place would bury you; you would never be heard of."
Sommers smiled at the penalty held out, but he did not protest.
"There isn't any career in hospital work, anyway, for a steady thing. You get side-tracked."