"You t-t-tied me up jolly well," he said. "It's comfy now. It was
aching hard."

"I like tying up things," she explained easily, "You see, I'm going to
be a doctor."

The rabbit's ears stopped waving for a minute in sheer astonishment.

"Girls aren't doctors."

"Yes, they are. Heaps of them. I'm reading up already, in that book.
It's all about first-aid. There's the bandage I did for you. You can
read how it's done."

He couldn't. And he was ashamed again. In his shame he began to
swagger.

"My father's a doctor--awfully clever----"

"Is he? How jolly! Why didn't you tell me? Has he lots of patients?"

"Lots. All over the world. But he doesn't think much of other
doctors. L-licensed h-humbugs, he calls them."

She drew away a little, her face between her hands, and he felt that
somehow he had failed again--that she had slipped through his fingers.
If only for a moment she had looked up to him and believed in him the
evil spirit that was climbing up on to his shoulders would have fled
away. There was a stout piece of stick lying amidst the rubble at his
feet, and he took it up and felt it as a swordsman tests his blade.