“I realize my position, dear, and I accept it as a law of nature.”
Her face, wistful with a wealth of unshed tears, appealed to him for mercy towards himself.
“Don’t let us talk of it. Oh, James, why should we? Then, I may write to mother?”
“Yes.”
She knelt up and kissed him.
“Beloved, if Gwen should die!”
Life was a somewhat monotonous affair at Dr. Tugler’s dispensary. Method was essential to the management of such a business, for there was more of the commercial enterprise in Dr. Tugler’s profession than a wilful idealist could have wished. Surgery hours began at eight, and Dr. Tugler’s was a punctual personality. Day in, day out, he bustled into the red-windowed front room as the hand of the clock came to the hour. Nothing but the most flagrant necessity was permitted to interfere with the precision of his practice. And since John Tugler did not spare his own body, it was not reasonable that he should spare those who worked for hire.
It was March 2d, a Tuesday, with a wet fog clogging the streets, when James Murchison arrived at the dispensary as the clock struck nine. The front room, packed as to its benches, steamed like a stable. The indescribable odor that emanates from the clothes of the poor made the air heavy with the smell of the unwashed slums.
Dr. Tugler glanced up briskly as the big man entered, screwed up his mouth, nodded, and jerked an elbow in the direction of the clock.
“Bustle along, Mr. Murchison. There are half a dozen cases waiting for you in the surgery.”