"And his memory!" exclaimed another. "It appears to be constructed on the principle of a rat-trap; ingress is easy, egress—not provided for!"
"No one can keep step with him but Arling," remarked a third; "if he gets well enough, there will be a close race between them."
"I bet on Arling," said a fourth,—a somewhat slender young man, with an easy, almost careless air, but a thoughtful face,—Mark Tracey by name.
"Eh! why?" asked the first speaker.
"Because, as you said just now, Roath is all brain. Whereas Arling, while he does not want for brain, has also a heart and a conscience. And in medicine, as in everything else, that wonderful trio are too strong for brain alone."
"Moralizing, as usual," returned the other with a light laugh.
"Not at all. It is plain common-sense. The history of the world shows it. Perhaps there is no better type of pure intellect than Satan. And Michael the archangel does very well for a representative of love, duty, and intellect, combined. You remember which beat?"
"It is not possible, Tracey, that you believe that fable!"
"Grant that it is a fable," replied Tracey, lifting his eyebrows;—"it nevertheless stands for the concrete wisdom of the ages which preceded it."
The last words were spoken on the threshold of the examination room, and, of necessity, closed the discussion.