Bertram Martin, although but twenty-four years of age, is regarded by the profession as the coming man. His work on aneurism is considered the ablest essay yet written upon the subject, and his reputation with the “knife” is second to none. He is highly cultured, earnest, a calm intelligence, with the fires of enthusiasm well banked up; but he is full of latent purpose, an energy that is ever on the spring, and of lava that eventually cools into solid success. He has a great future before him, and he feels it.
His father, in whose Turkey-rugged, book-lined office he reclines in a low chair—one of those delightful chairs that fondle and caress the weary occupant—is also a physician, and who, having amassed a considerable fortune, now that he has safely launched the good ship that bears his name, is about to enjoy a well-earned otium cum dignitate.
Bertram’s mother has noted the increasing pallor in the young physician’s face, the drag under the eye, the hard, dark lines, and the weariness of tone, that denote an active brain heated to a white heat, and has determined, coûte que coûte, that her eldest-born shall “drop both spade and plough for a revel amongst the daisies.”
“Exhibitions are played out, father,” exclaims Bertram. “The last and best was at Philadelphia, and no show on the earth could beat that.”
He is intensely American, regarding Europe as effete, old-world, used up.
“Paris is not played out.”
“I should much prefer seeing Paris at any other time.”
“That’s what everybody will say who can’t go. I may as well tell you, Bertram, that there’s a little conspiracy got up against you, and at the head of it is your mother.”
“Yes, Bertie,” exclaims Mrs. Martin, who enters, “we have undermined you. Your Uncle Kirwan starts on Wednesday by the Scythia, and here’s the ticket for your state-rooms,” handing him the article in question.
“Why, mother—”