He had risen to go, and was bending over her as tenderly as a mother. She reached up a thin hand and drew down his shaggy head until her lips rested against his ear.
“I’m partickly comfy,” she assured him anxiously. “Let the ache be.”
He kissed her lips.
“Mein kleine mädchen,” he trembled. “Ach, mein kleine mädchen.”
It was three o’clock in the morning when he left her, but he routed Burrell out of bed and made him sit up until half-past four, while he discussed everything under the face of the sun except that which was disturbing him. Burrell, dog-tired, listened patiently, but when Schriftman finally explained himself, he gave a start.
“Dot case in Ward A,” Schriftman blurted out, dropping into a broad dialect, as he always did when deeply moved. “I t’ink Richards iss der man to do dot—hein?”
“To do Gretzel?” exclaimed Burrell.
Schriftman nodded, looking up at Burrell from beneath his wiry eyebrows.
“Why, doctor,” cried Burrell, “there’s just one man in the world to do that operation—and that’s you!”
Schriftman’s head sank.