He roused up then. "I am—a—little fagged. Fearful day!"
"Well, for heaven's sake get up and take off that wet coat! Here,"—rising to help him—"I've always heard that doctors had absolutely no sense. Sitting around in a wet coat!"
"I wonder," he said, after another minute of resting, "why any man ever takes it into his head he wants to be a doctor?"
"And all day long," she laughed, "I've been wondering why any girl ever takes it into her head she wants to be a newspaper reporter."
"Speaking of the pleasant features of my business," she went on, "I may as well spring this first as last. Here am I, a more or less sensible young woman, come to ask you, a man whose time is worth—well, let's say a thousand dollars a second—what you intend doing about those hospital interns getting drunk last night!"
"My dear Miss Georgia,"—brushing out his hand in a characteristic way which seemed to be sweeping things aside—"go back to your paper and say that for all I care every intern in Chicago may get drunk every night in the week."
"Bully story!"
"And furthermore, every paper in Chicago may go to the devil, and every hospital may go trailing along for company. Oh Lord—I'm tired."
He looked it. It seemed to Georgia she had never understood what tiredness meant before.
"Such a hard day?" Professor Hastings asked.