"You can!" Isaacson said, laying a heavy stress on the first word.
"How?"
"First, by never speaking to me of—of the usual 'compensation' patients make to doctors."
"But how can you expect me to accept all this devoted service and make no kind of return?"
"Perhaps you can make me a return—the only return I want."
"But what is it?"
"I—I won't tell you to-night."
"Then when will you tell me?"
Isaacson hesitated. His face was blazing with expression. He looked like a man powerfully stirred—almost like a man on the edge of some outburst.
"I won't tell you to-night," he repeated.